As Long As We Both Shall Live
by Ink On Paper
Summary: They aren't dead yet . . . An epilogue, of sorts, to Season 9.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I have not posted/updated in FIVE MONTHS. Holy guacamole. Where the heck did the time go? I have a really good excuse though (Yeah, yeah, Kit, sure you do. Everybody has an excuse.) Seriously though. So what is my excuse you might be wondering? Where have I been these past few months? Well, as of this past Thursday, I am a high school graduate of the class of 2012. WHOOP WHOOP! *does happy dance* And it has been incredible: I can't believe I'm done (not done done, because there is still college, but, like, done.) It is so surreal. So anyway, that's what I've been up to. And, not to brag or anything, but I didn't just graduate, I graduated tenth in a class of 496. Bam . . . Okay, moving on: About that season finale: I liked it. I mean, I was totally freaking out over Ducky, but McCallum reupped his contract, so, I'm not too worried. But I really liked the overall episode. I'm not crazy about the whole psychotic revenge killing spree thing, but I thought this past season was up to par (Season 7 will always be my favorite, just saying). And I am curious to see what happens in the Season 10 (Season 10!) premier. That being said, this is my summer fic (Yeah, yeah, because last summer's worked out so well, right?) and I will finish it. Even if it kills me. Here's the Kit version of what happened the last few minutes before that final phoof, and what unfolds (in my mind, at least) beyond . . . And as always, much love, keep the peace, and until next time, Kit!**

**DISCLAIMER: I am a high school graduate. Period.**

**I.**

"Okay," she says, sitting back, soft fingers tracing the side of his face tenderly. "Let me put something on and then we'll go take care of this," she motions around the suite, encompassing the generous number of wrapped presents and gift bags.

"I'll talk to your parents," he offers shyly and she smiles as she crouches down to unzip her suitcase.

"Don't worry about my parents," she soothes, "I can handle them."

"Do you think they'll be disappointed? In me?" he asks quietly, and her heart aches for this sweet, wonderful man."

"Of course not!" she says, completely turning back around to meet his eyes. "They love you." And she waits until he smiles at her before she returns to the Great Suitcase Excavation and the intrepid search for her elusive t-shirt.

She's only successful in locating a pair of shorts, and so she leans back on her heels and calls over her shoulder, "Hey, Jimmy?"

"Yeah?"

"Could you look in the bathroom for my button-down? It should be right by the door."

"Yeah, one moment . . ." and she hears him get up and move into the in suite bathroom, flicking the light switch as he goes. She sighs and glances out the large bay window, watching the grey-green water roll onto the shore. The sand is undisturbed from last night's rain, and it's almost as if they are on an uncharted island, all by themselves, far away from civilization. And it would be romantic, she thinks, if they weren't about to call off the wedding, which, really doesn't matter that much to her anyway, but she's dreading telling her mother. She watches a lone figure stroll up the beach, slowly coming into focus out of the mist that lingers at the water's edge. Her lips curve upwards in a fond smile because the good doctor would already be donning his tuxedo.

She sighs because she doesn't want to have to tell him the news, either, though she's sure he will understand. She loves Jimmy, _adores_ him, and she loves his surrogate family, of course, but there is something about the wizened medical examiner that just puts her at ease . . . He's taking a phone call, now, pausing and looking out at the immense ocean, at the grey-green water that is churning almost hostilely.

And she's only vaguely aware of Jimmy asking, "Hey, Bree, is it this white one?" because she's suddenly on her feet, and her heart is suddenly in her throat, and she's gasping past the fear that's suddenly squeezing her . . .

"Oh my God, Jimmy! Dr. Mallard!"


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Starting next week, updates will be every Tuesday around 8 pm (hopefully), kind of like an NCIS summer mini-series (maybe). Anyway, this is proving difficult to write, I, however, am blaming the fact that I am sorely out of practice . . . Much love and keep the peace, Kit.**

**DISCLAIMER: I am sitting in a coffee shop in Smyrna, Tennessee, and I own nothing. So please, don't sue.**

**II.**

He barely has enough time to shield her before the basement windows erupt inwards as the ground heaves and a raging inferno scalds the air above their heads. And the explosion is loud; loud enough that it reverberates in his chest and makes his ears ring.

Of course, his ears are ringing because the fire alarm has been triggered as well.

"OhmyGod, ohmyGod, ohmyGod." And Abby has her face pressed into his shoulder, and she's trembling hard, and then there's a loud _prffft_ noise that he realizes is just the damn hippo. He lifts his head to glance around, and there's glass everywhere, and smoke, and water because the sprinklers have kicked in.

"Abs? Abby!" he says loudly in her ear, and she ceases her murmuring and tilts her face up to meet his eyes. And hers are tear-blurry and terrified, and he does the only thing he can think of: He pulls her closer and presses his lips to her temple. "You okay?" he asks, and his hip is throbbing from the impact with the floor. She's having trouble catching her breath, though, so she just nods.

"Come on," he says, climbing to his feet and tugging her up with him. He bends down and picks up the hippo, passing it to her wordlessly before grabbing her hand and leading her toward the exit.

And sirens are wailing outside, and there's shouting, and screaming, and he and Abby are both nearly doubled over coughing, and, oh, the others better be out of this building . . .

* * *

Later, all he will remember is a bright white flash before total darkness and then an all-encompassing _nothing_.

* * *

The elevator pitches sideways and she knows that they are either too late, or Harper Dearing is too early. She turns to Tony and half-tackles, half-stumbles into him. His arm goes around her waist as the floor shudders and the sound of protesting metal nearly drowns out the mighty _boom_ of the explosion. Tony breaks her fall as they both are tossed to floor, the lights blinking out, and the ceiling raining down on them.

And then there is nothing.

The emergency lights flicker on, bathing everything in an eerie blue glow, and the world seems to have momentarily stopped.

Tony is breathing heavily above her, having somehow managed to roll her between his body and the wall in an effort to shield her. She can feel his chest press into her back as he tries to gulp in a lungful of air, and his warm breath against her neck is oddly reassuring.

"Are you okay, Tony?" she asks softly, turning her head to perhaps see him.

His lips brush against her nape as he replies, "I think so. You?"

"Yes." Then, "Do you think you could get off of me?"

"I'm afraid to move," he tells her honestly, and his voice is also soft, as if he doesn't want to disturb the stillness. She understands because plummeting to her death holds no appeal to her either.

"Do you think it is unstable?" she asks in reference to the elevator that is easily imagined to be hanging precariously by a cable's thread. And she has the disconcerting sensation of balancing on a precipice.

"I don't know," he says, shifting minutely above her. "I do know one thing though."

"And what is that?"

"That we would fall together." And if he wasn't so serious she thinks she might laugh.

Instead she says, "You are strangely poetic in these types of situations."

"Yeah," he says thoughtfully. "I wonder why that is?"

"I do not know."

And then, suddenly, he's no longer above her.

"Well, that was anticlimactic," he says in mock disappointment from somewhere to her left.

She makes a noncommittal noise in the back of her throat as she places her right hand down to lever herself upward. The pain, however, that lances through her right wrist and slices up her arm sends her curling in on herself with a poorly stifled whimper.

"Ziva?" Tony calls, alarmed. She can feel him leaning toward her, the heat of his hand hovering just above her back. "Ziva?"

"I am fine," she says. She's staring at the well-worn carpet of the elevator's floor, blinking rapidly to clear her eyes of the tears that had sprung, unbidden, at the sudden and unexpected tide of pain. "I think I sprained my wrist."

Gingerly, she twists into a sitting position, leaning heavily against the wall, cradling her arm in her lap. Tony scoots closer to her, maneuvering himself so that they are shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh.

"Let me see," he coaxes, extending a tentative finger to brush the back of her hand. Her wrist is already swollen, and evidently very tender, or at least, that's how he's translating the sharp intake of breath she emits when he probes the area. "Can you wriggle your fingers?"

"I would rather not."

"Ziva."

Her fingers twitch minutely in response, and he almost thinks it was an unconscious movement, but then she's looking at him questioningly, as if to say _Satisfied?_

He meets her eyes and declares firmly, "Broken."

"How could you possibly know that?" she demands defensively. "You cannot possibly know that-"

The trill of Tony's cell phone interrupts her, however, and they both go very, very quiet. And then Tony is extracting the device from his pants pocket and pressing a button, and pressing the phone to his ear, uttering a faux-cheery, "Hello?"

"DiNozzo." And from where she's sitting beside Tony, Ziva can easily make out Gibbs' end of the conversation, and the worry that manifests as irritation in his gruff voice.

"Oh, hey, Boss," Tony greets as if their situation is anything but dire. And Ziva knows he's just relieved Gibbs is able to call him at all.

"Where the _hell_ are you?"

Tony drops all pretenses, "I'm in the elevator with Ziva. Where are _you_?"

"You have Ziva?"

"Yeah-"

"McGee?"

And Tony pales slightly at the implication. "He isn't with you?" and the question is tentative at best because the answer is a blatant 'no'.

"No, he's not with me. When did you last see him?"

Tony remains silent, clearly unsure, so Ziva has mercy on him and whispers, "He was heading to the bullpen to secure his computer before evacuating."

Tony gives her an appreciative glance before relaying this information to Gibbs.

"Are you and Ziva all right?" Gibbs asks after a beat, and Ziva has a sinking feeling about McGee.

"Yeah, yeah, just a little shaken up. Ziva thinks her wrist is broken and I agree. I don't know how stable the elevator is though . . ."

"I'm handing the phone over, DiNozzo. Stay on the line."

"Right."

There's a fuzzy sound as Gibbs presumably passes the phone on to someone else, and the ominous sound of wailing sirens can be heard over the line. "Agent DiNozzo? My name is Ted, I'm with the fire department. You're in the elevator, correct?"

"Correct."

"Are you alone?"

"No, Agent David is with me-"

"And her wrist is broken?"

"I think so."

"Okay, Agent DiNozzo, I'm going to send a team to survey the shaft and make sure you guys aren't in any immediate danger. It's going to take about fifteen minutes, so just hang tight. Is the elevator cabin tilted?"

Tony glances around the tiny space, "I think so."

"Are you at the lower end of the tilt?"

"Um . . ."

"Yes," Ziva whispers. "Say yes."

"Yes," Tony repeats into the phone, still not understanding but just going with it.

"Okay, don't move."

"Okay." There's an audible _click_ and then nothing.

"Well," Tony says after a moment of staring blankly at the now silent cell phone. "He didn't even say goodbye." And Ziva knows what he's doing, that he's trying to relieve some of the tension, that he's trying to pretend that McGee isn't missing, and that they aren't stuck, and that her wrist isn't possibly –probably – broken.

She stays silent and he looks down at her.

"Hey," he murmurs, reaching for her uninjured hand and giving it a squeeze. "It's gonna be okay, we're gonna get out of here."

"McGee," she whispers and they both ignore the catch in her voice.

"They'll find him, Ziva," Tony reassures her, and he, mercifully, sounds so sure of this and she wants to believe him. "He may already be out of the building."

"Without his phone?" And she can't help but be the skeptic.

Tony seems to mull this over. "You know, he may be better off not being outside the building, you know? If it turns out he was in the parking lot and not answering Gibbs' calls . . ."

And she does smile a bit at this.

Tony leans his head back against the wall with a dull thunk, and Ziva tilts her head onto his shoulder, slouching into him. And his warmth is reassuring, and his incessant babbling is comforting.

"You know," he says idly, "It could be worse. I saw this in a movie once –no, it was a Twilight Zone episode. Yeah, that's it. Anyway, the elevator had this killer spider at the bottom, or something . . ."

Killer spiders aside, Ziva finds herself praying that this day doesn't get any worse.

Later, she'll think she should have known better.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Okay, so I attempted posting this two hours ago when I said I would, but my freaking Internet crashed and I'm just now able to get back on. But I did meet my deadline, I promise. And I will continue to update every Tuesday around eight. In other news, I made my annual pilgrimage to TN this past week, and while I was away from my laptop and FFN, I thoroughly enjoyed visiting my family and friends. However, while I was away, some changes were made to FFN, and while I don't know how much anybody (including me) actually knows, there have been several disagreements going on amongst members of the community. I am not comfortable with a few of the changes that were made, if we're going to be honest. I do not like the fact that the anonymous reviews are automatically turned on -even if an author can screen them, he or she will still have to read whatever is written. I have never had -nor do I ever expect to have- anyone say intentionally malicious things to me via the Internet, however I have seen some instances in which it has occurred with other authors. And I know that several very talented people have decided to leave FFN as a result. At this time, I have decided to remain here -though one of my summer-pre-college goals is to get my livejournal account in running order (if you're interested, just type in INK ON PAPER LIVEJOURNAL into your Internet Explorer. My page says "Ink On Paper Presented by Kit" just in case there are other Ink On Papers out there). I highly doubt that anyone reading this is unkind, and I know that almost everyone involved with FFN is wonderful and awesome, but I also know that cyberbullying is alive and well, and that it could really hurt someone. So to any guests that may review my pieces, welcome and please, feel free to comment or even PM me. And to everyone in general, be kind to each other, okay? And to those that actually took the time to read this: You absolutely rock, my friends. Absolutely! Any much love always, and keep the peace, Kit!**

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.**

**Chapter III**

Seventeen minutes later and there is no sign of the fire department, and Tony's cell has remained stubbornly silent. The emergency light is still on, and they are still stuck, still sitting on the ground, shoulders touching. Ziva has her hurt wrist lying limply in her lap, and she's worrying the pinky finger on her other hand with her teeth. Tony has his head tilted back, his nose pointing toward the ceiling, his eyes closed. And he's already entertained the thought that he could have a concussion, but there's little he can do about it right now.

He steals another glance at his watch, and suppresses a groan at the fact that only a minute has slipped by since he last checked.

"You okay?" he asks quietly and he feels her shift beside him.

"No," she murmurs, and there is something in her voice that startles him, a quality he's heard maybe once before. He opens his eyes and gazes down at her.

Her face is pale and her eyes are wide as she glances up at his face. She seems to be vibrating, she's so tense. He reaches over, tugging her good hand from her mouth and wrapping her fingers in his. And she's trembling like a leaf.

"Ziva," he says softly. He can feel her pulse hammering in her wrist, and she's trying, valiantly, to take deep even breathes.

"I will fine in a –moment," she whispers, and she's borderline hyperventilating.

"Panic attack?" he asks, rubbing his thumb across her hand reassuringly. He's only ever had one once, and he was alone at the time, and he honestly thought he was going to die. It felt like a heart attack, or at least, what he would imagine a heart attack to feel like. Of course, actually dying at that point would have been a huge relief, seeing as it had been one of the worst days of his life and, ironically, Ziva David had been involved . . .

"I will be okay," she repeats, but he can't tell if she's talking to him or herself.

There's a mighty thud and the elevator shudders, and Ziva lets out a startled gasp that has her wiping her eyes on Tony's shoulder as light suddenly floods the tiny cabin. Dust and tiny particles of debris rain down upon them as one of the ceiling tiles is lifted away. A hulking figure peers down at them, its silhouette illuminated by the light that filters in through the elevator shaft.

"Agents DiNozzo, David, are you alright?" asks a deep voice that belongs to the figure.

Tony takes a breath to respond, but ends up choking on the dust in the air. The sudden coughing fit rallies Ziva into calming herself and she squints up at the light. "Yes," she calls loudly, and then someone says something to the shadowed man, but she can't make out all the words.

"I'm with the fire department," the fireman says. "The elevator's stable for now. Y'all are stuck between two floors, but you're closer to the third floor than you are the second. We're gonna send somebody down there in a minute, so just hang tight, 'kay?" And Ziva resists the urge to point out that they aren't going anywhere and that they have no choice but to 'hang tight.'

Anxiety claws at her lungs with the realization that she is at this stranger's mercy.

* * *

He pauses in his pacing along the sidewalk to watch a large portion of the building façade crumple and fall several stories before hitting the ground with a crack. The air is thick with the acrid smell of smoke and the high whine of sirens. The flashing lights from the fire trucks, ambulances, and police cars are painting the surrounding pavement red and blue and it almost looks like an ethereal monster is writhing on the ground in pain.

Flames burst forth from an upper storey window, and the glass rains down onto the firemen below, but they seem to ignore it, instead keeping a steady stream of water pulsing onto the livid flames.

The ambulance behind hi suddenly peals away, the driver laying on his horn and adding to the cacophony of the blaring siren. Nine people are dead, though probably more, and at least twenty are wounded. And the fact that he can only account for half of his team is chillingly disturbing and all too surreal . . .

He only saw McGee briefly when they brought him out, and he came very close to being sick.

Blood was everywhere, all over McGee's face, his suit, and the sheet covering his lower body was blooming with crimson as well. He was unconscious, and the EMT had him in a neck brace, an intubation tube between his lips. He was way too pale and way too still, and, oh dear, God, don't let him die. The older woman who was loading him into the back of the ambulance refused to let Gibbs ride, an argument he decided not to engage in since he still had two agents MIA.

He had turned Abby over to another paramedic when she had started hyperventilating after McGee had been taken away. Now, thirty minutes later, he can just make out her pigtails from behind the tree she leaned up against. He had checked on her several minutes ago only to find that she had her eyes closed, her rosary wound between her fingers, and her lips moving in silent prayer.

If Tony and Ziva don't materialize in the next sixty seconds, he's going in after them himself.

And what the hell were they thinking, taking an elevator in the midst of a bomb threat?

_New rule: If there's a bomb threat, take the stairs. Always. _

There's movement out of the corner of his eye: Four figures emerging from the building and picking their way across the debris strewn ground toward a waiting ambulance.

He forces himself to walk, briskly, over to them.

A paramedic has already placed an oxygen mask over DiNozzo's face by the time Gibbs arrives at the bumper. Ziva is sitting beside Tony, her face pale and drawn, as another paramedic pokes and prods at her alarmingly swollen wrist. Both agents have scratches on their faces -Tony has a particularly deep gash over his cheek- and both agents have dust and bits of plaster in their hair and on their clothes. They look like hell, but they're alive, at least, and conscious.

Tony notices Gibbs first.

"Hey, boss," he calls, his voice muffled behind the mask. And Ziva looks up quickly, her dark eyes clearly relieved.

"DiNozzo."

"I'm fine," Tony reassures. "Just breathed in too much dust and crap."

Gibbs seems to relax a little before turning to Ziva: "Ziver."

"They think my wrist is broken. But I, too, am okay."

"What about McGee and Abby?" Tony asks cautiously, and Gibbs is suddenly exhausted.

"Abby's fine; a little cut up and definitely shaken." And he's evading the question . . .

Ziva's eyes are bright as she stares at him. "And McGee?"

But she's already seen the answer in his eyes.

**A/N2: ?**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Okay, so disclaimer: I have no inside information into Season 10; and I highly doubt any of my speculations will yield reality. That being said, everything in this story –as far as who dies, who's injured and how badly- is made-up. Okay? Okay. Moving on then: I cannot wait until the angst-y-ness is done because, believe it or not, this was supposed to be a more healing, let's-make-everything-happy-again story. But you know what? It just isn't going there quite yet. I wonder what happens next? (Seriously folks, I just write it as it comes to me. I honestly have no freaking clue where this is gonna go.) So, uh, much love and keep the peace, Kit!**

**DISCLAIMER: Not mine!**

**Chapter IV**

_"At every occasion I'll be ready for the funeral . . ." Funeral, Band of Horses_

He feels a headache coming on as he disconnects his call from Palmer. If today gets any worse, he doesn't know what he's going to do.

He wanders back to the examination room he left Tony and Ziva in, not wanting to put off the conversation any longer. The door is open so he doesn't bother knocking, but just sweeps in, the pungent smell of antiseptic contrasting sharply with the bitter aroma from the stale hospital coffee he's gripping like a life preserver.

Tony is sitting in a molded plastic chair pulled up alongside the examination table Ziva is perched on. There's a thin line of stitches across his cheek, and a Band-Aid on the side of his neck, and he's washed the dust from his face, but he doesn't look much better. Ziva has a butterfly stitch above her left eyebrow and there is an impressive bruise blooming across her temple. Somebody has scraped her hair back into a ponytail, but that just seems to make her look so much younger all of the sudden.

"Hey, Boss," Tony greets lightly, trying in vain to infuse some enthusiasm into their dismal situation. He fails by leaps and bounds.

"Any news on McGee?" Ziva asks, ignoring her partner's brave attempt at levity.

Gibbs takes a deep breath, and says frankly, "He's in critical condition."

And for few heartbeats, nobody speaks.

"How bad is it?" And now Tony has surrendered to the circumstances, his voice adopting the hollow quality of a man expecting nothing. Which Gibbs supposes is fitting, since they must be out of miracles by now.

"Bad," he says, wishing that he could give them something, anything, to cling to. Alas, though, he has nothing to offer. "He's got bleeding in his brain. The doctors are worrying about pressure building up."

"Can't they do something about that? I mean, it's treatable, right? People survive that kind of thing, don't they?" And Tony sounds so helpless.

Gibbs blinks, utterly at loss, and so very exhausted. "I don't know, Tony. Best case scenario is a he has mild brain damage."

Silence descends on the group and then Ziva says, slightly hysterical, "That is the best case scenario? Mild brain damage? Gibbs . . . Gibbs . . ." Her face crumples and she presses her good hand to her mouth, choking back a sob. And before Gibbs can even move toward her, Tony is already standing, wincing as he shuffles closer to his partner. She leans into his shoulder, her uninjured hand fisting in the fabric of his rumpled shirt, her slender frame trembling with silent tears. Gibbs watches wordlessly as Tony rubs her nape, attempting to soothe her.

"Excuse me?"

The two men glance over to the young nurse now standing in the doorway, her warm smile and bright pink clipboard seeming too cheerful to the three agents drowning in despair.

"I need a Ziva David to come with me for an x-ray."

And Ziva lifts her head from Tony's shoulder, swiping her eyes roughly with the heel of her good hand. She slips down from the examination table without assistance, composing herself in a few shaky breaths as her old façade slides into place with minimal effort. This is her brave face, Tony thinks, watching as she nods to him and Gibbs in turn before following the nurse from the tiny room. He wonders absently how long she can maintain the pretense this time around.

Gibbs waits until he's certain Ziva is out of earshot before he turns back to Tony to deliver the –_pleaseGodletitbe _- final blow of the afternoon:

"I got a call from Palmer."

"Yeah?" And it is obvious DiNozzo is somewhere else in his headspace so Gibbs pauses for a few moments. "Shouldn't he be on his honeymoon, or something?" Tony asks absently, his brow furrowing as he tries to integrate this new information. _Why would Palmer be calling Gibbs-_

"Ducky's had a heart attack, Tony. He's having double bypass surgery right now."

He waits for the younger man to say something, half expecting some utterance of disbelief, but instead DiNozzo surprises him by suddenly striding toward the door. "I gotta go . . . I gotta . . . I," He pauses and looks to Gibbs from over his shoulder. His eyes appear grey in the overhead lighting as he looks pleadingly at the older man. "What do I do, Boss?" he whispers, clearly at a loss. And Gibbs can count on one hand the number of times he's seen Anthony DiNozzo _this_ uncertain.

Gibbs sighs. "Go. Your partner needs you." _And you need your partner. _

Tony nods, squaring his shoulders, and leaves, presumably to find radiology and the one person in the world who can help him through this.

* * *

Ziva's wrist is broken, something the doctor referred to as a distal radial fracture, and while Tony doesn't think that that sounds very good, the doctor assures him it will heal just fine. While Ziva's cast is setting, Tony decides to locate Gibbs to give him an update and inform him that he and Ziva are taking a cab home. And after fifteen minutes of wandering aimlessly throughout the labyrinth of hospital corridors, Tony finally finds him in a deserted waiting area, sitting beside a civilian Tony has never seen before, talking quietly.

"Um, Boss?" And while he doesn't want to intrude, he really wants to collect Ziva and get the hell out of the hospital because, frankly, it's starting to freak him out. Both Gibbs and the stranger look up at interruption, though neither give him verbal acknowledgement; Gibbs merely arches a silver eyebrow and excuses himself.

"What?" he asks gruffly when he's in earshot of only Tony. His blue eyes are tired and his face drawn as he waits impatiently for an answer. And Tony is struck by how old his boss suddenly looks.

"_DiNozzo_."

"Sorry, Boss. I, um," he takes a deep breath, shakes his head. Regroups. Tries again: "Ziva's getting a cast put on and then we're heading out; I called a cab. Just thought you'd want to know."

And Gibbs blinks and nods slowly, "Yeah, okay. She staying with you tonight?"

The question catches Tony off guard -he's mentally, emotionally, and physically _drained_ at this point- and he ends up stumbling over an answer in his head for a few moments before stammering out a pitiful, "I don't know."

Gibbs' lips quirk up in a sad half smile of understanding. "Watch her six, Tony."

"I will," he assures, running a hand through his already-tousled hair. He nods toward the guy Gibbs had been talking with and asks quietly, "Who's that?"

Gibbs glances over his shoulder at the man sitting beside the window, staring forlornly out into the view of the parking lot several stories below. Gooseflesh erupts across Tony's arms as he realizes that the man has been crying: His grey eyes are red-rimmed and bright with unshed tears, and there's a crumpled tissue clutched tightly in his fist.

Another wave of foreboding crashes over Tony, bringing with it an odd wash of déjà vu. And haven't they met their crises quota for today?

"Michael Rodriguez," Gibbs replies softly, blue eyes flickering back to Tony. "He's Ned Dorneget's partner."

Tony just looks at Gibbs blankly, clearly not understanding the significance of Michael Rodriguez's presence . . . Then he suddenly remembers that the word partner doesn't always have the same context as it does when applied to his working relationship with Ziva or McGee. And then he remembers that the detonation would have affected other people, other agents, outside of the MCRT . . .

"God, Boss, is Dorneget okay?" But he _knows_, somehow, before he's even been told the answer.

Gibbs glances back over at Michael Rodriguez before looking Tony in the eye.

"Special Agent Dorneget passed away an hour ago, Tony."


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Hello! How is everybody doing? All is well in the land of Kit; less than a month until I move into a dorm (Eep!). So . . . As Long As We Both Shall Live. Geez, it's been angsty -it's still going to be angsty. At least for one more chapter and then there will be some proverbial sunshine. As for this chapter: I don't think anybody is out of character. Frankly, I'm impressed neither Tony nor Ziva (especially Ziva) has had a nervous breakdown yet. I mean, come on. Poor things. So, yes, I firmly believe that McGee being seriously injured, Dorneget being dead, being nearly blown up, and having her wrist broken would put both of them on edge, emotionally. And, no, I don't really think that she and Tony do the following often, if ever, so this, as far as I'm concerned, is a first for them (and it isn't anything hinky). So, keep the peace and much love, Kit!**

**DISCLAIMER: I have no affiliation with CBS, NCIS, or whatever other acronym you want to throw in there. I just borrow them and put them back where I found them.**

**Chapter V**

"_I was a heavy heart to carry, but he never let me down;_

_When he held me in his arms, my feet never touched the ground . . ."_

_Heavy In Your Arms__, Florence + The Machine_

By the time they leave the hospital, any fire left in Ziva has been extinguished. She sits silently beside Tony on the backseat of the cab, gazing pensively out the window, her lower lip between her teeth. She hasn't said anything since Tony had shepherded her into the taxi, and even then it had only been a murmured, "Thank you." Her carefully constructed charade is gone, tucked safely away for the next occasion in which she needs to be calm, collected, and virtually unflappable. Now, though, she can be tired, and weary, and sad because the cabbie doesn't require a performance and Tony is too exhausted to care. So she sits, slumped beside her partner, her wrist firmly incased in a blue fiberglass cast up to her elbow and resting limply in her lap. She has her forehead pressed against the cool glass of the car window and she lets her eyes slip closed briefly . . .

Somehow, they wind up at Tony's apartment, which looks markedly different since the last time she's been here. When she asks him about this, her voice soft in the quiet of the young night, he seems mildly surprised. "It's been awhile, Ziva; I've lived here almost three years . . ." but his voice trails off because at this point they've both realized that, yes, it has been that long since she's visited him, and longer.

She stands in the living room, looking around, lost, as he moves through the apartment, flicking on lights. She recognizes the couch, though the leather armchair is new and so is the ebony-stained entertainment center pushed up against the far wall. She doesn't quite remember the coffee table, but then again, coffee tables tend to be unexceptional-

"Do you want to shower . . .?" Tony winces when she startles, his eyes apologetic when she turns around to glare at him. She softens at the fatigue clinging to his features, however, and shakes her head. "You go ahead. I, um, I . . ."

"You're more than welcome to anything in the kitchen," he offers politely, and the formality seems awkward to her, as if they shouldn't be so proper. "I can't promise you that you'll find much," he continues with an embarrassed almost-grin. "I think there's some Chamomile tea in cabinet above the stove."

She wants to say, _Since when do you drink tea?_ But, alas, she cannot muster up the energy so instead she just nods, "Okay."

He watches her for a few more heartbeats before turning toward the small hallway just behind him. He pauses, though, with his hand presumably on the doorknob and, after a brief internal debate that plays out across his face, calls out, "Ziva?"

She just looks at him.

"I know you said you didn't need anything, but there's some Vicodine in the cabinet with the tea. You don't need to be a hero; broken bones hurt like a bitch." And then he's gone and she's alone, standing in his living room, wanting to tell him that she never wanted to be a hero, but the words get stuck in her throat.

She makes tea, if only to give herself something to do for the thirteen minutes Tony is in the bathroom. And she does locate the bottle of pain killers, and some saltines since she hasn't eaten anything since lunch and she shouldn't take anything on an empty stomach. A handful of crackers later, and she shakes out a tablet from the little orange bottle and swallows it dry.

When Tony emerges, he finds her sitting in his armchair, watching the evening news with the volume turned down, and clutching a mug of tea. She glances over at him, takes in his flushed face and dripping hair, sweat pants and fresh undershirt, and is hit with a sudden need for water so hot it will scald her skin.

He's about to ask her if she's okay, when she excuses herself to the bathroom, that she's changed her mind and would like a shower, thank you.

He's able to tell her that the clean towels are under the sink before the door snicks shut and she's gone.

He locates clothes for her, a pair of freshly laundered gym shorts and an old OSU t-shirt that is soft from years of wear. He places the offering outside the bathroom door, knocking once and informing her that it's there though she should take her time, no rush.

Back in the living room, he switches the television channel to something less morbid than the evening news because, frankly, he doesn't need the updated coverage on the bombing at the Navy Yard, he was there and that was enough. He settles for a rerun of some weeknight sitcom that he's probably seen before but wouldn't remember anyway, and then heads into the kitchen in the hopes that Ziva has left him some tea. Years ago, he would have scoffed at the suggestion that he, Anthony DiNozzo, drink tea, but within the past year, when his periodic bouts of insomnia became more persistent and nights of sleep became few and far between, he had been willing to try anything. Even New Age herbal remedy crap that he previously put no stock in. At least the tea worked.

He hears her start to run the bath faucet and this confuses him because he wouldn't peg Ziva David as a hot bath kind of girl –or at least, not in his apartment, using his bathtub, after the hellish day they've just encountered. But then he remembers that her arm is in a cast and that a shower is probably counter-productive to keeping it dry.

He moves back into the living room, but doesn't sit down, instead opts to gaze out the window at the quiet street below. Moths are dancing under the yellow glow of the streetlights and a young couple is walking hand in hand down the sidewalk, a little terrier leading the way excitedly. It's a quiet neighborhood, which was one of the reason he moved, and he likes being away from the rush of the city, the constant movement, the blare of car horns at every hour . . .

"Tony?" Her voice is soft, not timid, but hesitant, and he glances up to see her standing in the doorway, chewing her bottom lip. She's wearing his clothes and they dwarf her smaller frame, the shirt alone seemingly swallowing her whole. She's no longer dusty and that must feel good . . .

"What's up?" he asks, moving toward her, setting his mug down on the coffee table.

She frowns and a little dip forms between her eyebrows. When she speaks, she doesn't meet his eyes. "I –I cannot wash my hair with only one hand." And now she looks up at him, her expression challenging, and he finally notices that her dark hair is still dry. He sighs with relief and offers her a reassuring smile because, thank God, he can _fix this_.

"Rule number fifteen, David: Teamwork."

...

He washes her hair in the kitchen sink because he figures it will be easier on them both if they don't have to figure out the logistics of using the shower together without getting sopping wet. He's surprisingly gentle; methodically massaging the shampoo into her hair and untangling any tangles that occur. When he goes to rinse her hairline with the spray hose, he places his other hand across her forehead to keep soap from getting in her eyes. And it's oddly intimate, but she bats the notion from her mind easily, her thoughts already too scattered to hold onto a single observation to analyze.

Afterward, she combs her hair out, and unknots any curls that have become knotted, and then French braids her hair quickly down her back. She doesn't say anything, and Tony returns the shampoo and conditioner to the bathroom while she wipes down the countertop around the sink. And it's oddly domestic, but she quells this impression as quickly as the previous because now it's time for bed.

He waits until the lights are out and they've both settled on their respective sides of his bed to tell her about Ducky and Ned Dorneget.

"Ziva, I need to tell you something," and he hates the way that sentence sounds, hates its every implication. He feels her stiffen beside him, despite the Great Wall of Pillows that separate their personal spaces.

"Tony . . ." her voice is soft, a warning. _Please, please don't say something stupid_, she begs silently. _I cannot handle it._

"Listen, Ziva, Ned Dorneget was on the first floor when the bomb went off. He was standing right by the windows." He hears her take a ragged breath and he knows that she's pieced the rest of this story together. And Tony can't even give her solace in the fact that it was quick, that their friend didn't feel a thing and he never knew what hit him. Because Ned Dorneget lived long enough to die in emergency surgery.

"McGee will be devastated," she says, but she chokes on her words and Tony's heart breaks a little for her. "McGee," she whispers brokenly and he feels the bed shudder with her silent sob.

He feels like an ass because he knows he's only going to make her hurt worse.

"Ducky had a heart attack," and no matter how quickly one rips off the proverbial Band-Aid, damn it all, it still hurts. She's sobbing now, jagged, uneven breaths that come too quick and too loud. And he's never, ever witnessed her like this, vulnerable and broken, crying uncontrollably in the darkness of his bedroom.

He sits up and tosses the barricade of pillows to the floor before reaching over and doing the only thing he can think to do: Pull Ziva to him and hold her tight.

She goes willingly, curling into his side and burying her face in his chest, her hot tears burning through his shirt. And he wraps his arms around her, crushing her to him, clinging to her as much as she is him. And he's sobbing now, too; deep, gut-wrenching sobs that well up from somewhere inside him. And he embraces her, and she lets him, and they lament tears of frustration, exhaustion, and premature grief.

And they hold on.

Together.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Here you go! Much love, keep the peace, always, Kit!**

**A/N2: Okay, so a hundred thousand thank yous to M E Wofford for catching my blunder: There is no Rule 58, my friends, I apologize for any confusion. I was thinking of Rule 51 and did not type accordingly. Again, I am so sorry for any confusion (and if you have no idea what I'm talking about, don't worry about it!) And once again, THANK YOU M E WOFFORD! Always, Kit!**

**DISCLAIMER: Not mine!**

**VI**

When she wakes up the following morning, it is to an empty bed and an alarm clock proclaiming it to actually be afternoon. She is disoriented because this is not her room, or her sheets, and her gun is not beneath the pillow that isn't hers either. Her heart starts to hammer in her chest, but she notices the framed _Casablanca_ poster on the far wall and begins to relax. Because she begins to remember yesterday, and the explosion, and the elevator, and Tony, and McGee, and Gibbs, and Ducky, and Ned Dorneget. And even though she's slept half the day away, she's still bone-weary exhausted. The skin around her eyes is tight from dried tears and her head is throbbing with a migraine, and she must be hungover with grief. Or from grief. Or whatever.

She slips out of bed because, though she has cried all night, she has retained enough water to warrant a need for the bathroom. As she washes her hands five minutes later, she can't help but stare at her reflection in mild disbelief: Her face is pale and there are dark shadows clinging to the skin beneath her lower lashes. Her eyes are bloodshot and uncomfortably dry; there is a fresh bruise blooming across her temple, beneath the butterfly stitch above her left eyebrow. She reaches up to touch it with her good hand and winces at the tenderness. She also notices then that there are more bruises staining both her arms and, upon lifting up the hem of her shirt and twisting around, her back. She sighs, stifling a yawn, and goes to find her partner who can't be faring much better than her.

Moments later and she finds herself standing in the middle of Tony's living room, sans Tony. And while her foray into the kitchen does not yield the man himself, she does locate a note in Tony's untidy scrawl left beside the coffee maker. She doesn't pick it up, instead leans forward to read it, squinting and tilting her head and cursing his lack of penmanship.

_Ziva,_

_ Had to take care of something. Coffee in pot, cereal next to fridge. Sorry not many options. You can stay as long as you want, I should be back by 2. I have my cell._

_ Tony_

The domesticity of the note does strange things to her stomach and she wonders idly if he even gave it a second thought at the time. She's even more disturbed by the fact that she had been so out of it that he had been able to leave earlier without waking her.

And the fact that she fell asleep with him, but woke up alone is so cliché and so very fitting. And if she's being honest with herself, she's grateful that they didn't have to do that awkward morning after thing –even though there was no night before.

She steals a banana from the bowl on the counter and calls a cab; and had this been any other time, she would have rather walked, but she since has no idea how far her apartment is from Tony's she decides a taxi would be best. And, if she's really being honest with herself, she doesn't think her tired body can drag itself home.

...

She has just finished making a BLT when her phone trills from its spot on the counter. She doesn't bother glancing at the caller ID since it's probably Tony or Gibbs, and so she answers it briskly, banishing the exhaustion from her voice, "David."

"Hello?" And the honeyed female voice that filters over the line does not belong to either of her expected callers. "Ziva, it's me. Do you have a minute?"

Ziva nods, leaning up against the kitchen sink. "Of course, Breena. How are you?"

Breena heaves a sigh. "I've been better," she admits, "but I've also been worse. I'm just tired. And worried. What about you, though? How are you holding up?" And her tone is that of genuine concern and it gives Ziva a warm feeling in her chest that this woman she's only met a handful of times actually cares.

"I am . . . sore," she answers truthfully and her own honesty surprises her. "I have a headache and my wrist hurts, but I will survive."

Breena makes a noise of commiseration, "Yeah, I heard about your wrist. That sucks, by the way."

"Yes," Ziva agrees, a small smile tugging at her lips at such a blunt assertion. Because it truly does suck, but it could be worse. It could be way worse. "How is Ducky?" _Please do not let me regret asking . . ._

"He's sitting right next to me actually. He'd really like to talk to you, if you have time-"

And Ziva nearly knocks over her glass of tea with her elbow. "Yes!" she cries before hurriedly calming herself. "I mean, yes, I do. Please, let me talk to him."

"Okay," Breena says with a chuckle. "I'm passing the phone over."

Ziva waits, albeit impatiently, as the sounds of the phone being shuffled around crackle over the line. And she nearly starts to cry again, though this time out of relief, when a familiar brogue asks warmly, "Ziva, my dear, are you there?"

"Oh, Ducky!" And there are a few brave tears that escape before she can blink them away. "It is so good to hear your voice! How do you feel?"

"Ah, I will be fine, just needed a quick tune-up," he replies cheerily. "I hope you are faring well in light of recent events?"

She bits her lip, wondering how much he's been told. She settles on a vague, all encompassing, "We are still regrouping."

"Yes," he says thoughtfully, "Well, that is to be expected; after all, your world was definitely shaken up quite a bit."

She decides he doesn't know about McGee yet.

"We will get through it," she says in what she hopes is a convincing manner. "It will just take time."

"Time heals all wounds," Ducky adds and she can't help but smile because that is such a Ducky thing to say. "Oh bother, the nurse is coming –I'm not supposed to be on the phone, you know. She's already confiscated my cellular and I doubt Miss Slater would like to have hers impounded as well."

"I understand, Ducky," Ziva says with a smile. "I will talk with you again, okay?"

"Of course, my dear. And Ziva? Try not to worry too much. Everything will work out."

A hot, fat teardrop rolls down her cheek at his concern. "I will try not to worry too much so long as you try to stay out of trouble," she replies, proud that her voice is still steady.

"I am afraid I cannot make any promises . . ."

She can't help but laugh –and it feels good to. "Goodbye, Ducky," she says.

"Goodbye, my dear."

"And Ducky?"

"Hm?"

". . . We miss you."

"I miss you all as well, my dear Ziva."

"Shalom."

And the call disconnects and she is once again alone in her kitchen. But she feels lighter, somehow, as if a burden has been lifted from her chest.

...

When he calls her around eight thirty, she's already in bed with clean sheets and a heating pad for her aching muscles.

"Shalom," she greets, leaning back against her pillows and dog-earring the page in the novel she's reading.

"Hey," he returns, his tone light, though tired. "How ya doin'?"

"I am fine, thank you. How about you?"

His sigh crackles over the phone line. "Honestly? My back is killing me –I'm surprised you can't smell the Bengay." And she chuckles at his exaggeration while a pang of commiseration twists in her chest.

"I recommend a heating pad," she tells him.

"Yeah, well, I've got two."

"I spoke to Ducky," she says suddenly, and if her non sequitur throws him, he doesn't give any indication. "He sounded good."

"Good," he replies, his voice genuinely relieved. "You know Palmer and Breena didn't tie the knot, right?"

Her eyebrows encroach on her hairline as she repeats uncertainly, "Tie the knot . . .? Is that symbolic, like jumping over a broomstick?"

"What?" And now Tony sounds confused. "Tie the knot means get married. Palmer and Breena didn't get married."

"I did not know that –that they didn't get married." And she is sad for them, because they were both so happy and excited for their wedding . . .

". . . thinking when things blow over," Tony is saying, but she wasn't paying attention.

"I am sorry, Tony, you lost me."

"I said, Palmer's thinking that when things blow over, he and Breena will get married then," Tony explains patiently, and if he's upset at her for zoning off, she isn't able to tell. His voice takes on a different tone, a thoughtful tone, as he continues. "Palmer said that it was important for us to be there –he said it didn't feel right knowing we were missing."

A warm feeling curls up in her heart at the idea that Palmer wanted them there that badly –and she remembers, absently, that this is what family feels like. "So I take it you talked to Jimmy?" she asks, reaching over to turn out her bedside lamp.

"Yeah," Tony answers, and she can hear his mattress creak as he shifts around. "Hey, Ziva?"

"Mmhm?"

"They found Harper Dearing."

She stays silent.

"He's dead," Tony adds, and there's something in his voice that sounds a lot like disappointment.

She swallows around the lump wedged in her throat and finally manages a soft, "When?"

"Early this morning, just outside of Arlington. Bastard shot himself in the head." And Tony's voice is hollow sounding, suddenly, as if he's reciting lines from a script.

And Ziva can't help but think this is oddly anticlimactic.

"So it is over?" she asks, hating how her words sound so small in the darkness of her bedroom. Because it can't be over; of course it isn't. Because she has a broken wrist and McGee is facing possible brain damage, if not worse. Ducky has undergone a double bypass surgery on his heart, and while he sounded fine on the phone, she knows that it is a very serious deal. And then poor Abby must surely be on the verge of an emotional breakdown. And Tony, on the other in of the phone, is so very tired and hurting.

But as far as Harper Dearing goes, they're done.

"Yeah," he says quietly, his voice but a murmur in her ear. "It's over."

They do not speak for several minutes, instead just listen to the other's breathing over the phone as they process the news. There is no bad guy anymore; there's no revenge to be had. But then again, this is where revenge has gotten them, hasn't it? Evan Dearing was killed and his father went mad with grief, insistent in his goal to extract retribution on the organization he blamed for his son's death. And she was just caught in the crosshairs with the rest of the Navy Yard.

Still, though, Ziva David is no stranger to the concept of vengeance and she can't help but mourn the loss of a more satisfying closure.

"What are you thinking about?" she asks softly.

And she can hear Tony move around before he replies in a low voice, "Rule 51."

And, yes, she, too, is no stranger to the concept of being wrong, either.

Because it's not over; not when it's just begun.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: :^) **

**DISCLAIMER: Not mine.**

**CHAPTER VII**

_"I can be your china doll, if you want to see me fall . . ." Without You, Lana del Rey_

The kind-eyed matron at the nurses' station offers to escort her to the Intensive Care Unit and Ziva, graciously, accepts. They chat idly about the weather –the humidity is suffocating and the heat nearly record-breaking- as they wind their way through brightly lit corridors lined with cheerful watercolor paintings .

McGee is not in his assigned room. Ziva turns to the nurse in alarm.

"Why is he not in his room?" she demands, her voice several notes higher in pitch than usual. And she hates that she's panicking without all the facts being in, but McGee is not in his room and the past sixty hours have been less than promising.

"I am sure your friend is fine," the nurse says, completely unfazed.

"He's in having another test run. They moved him thirty minutes ago." Ziva looks over at the young woman, the apparent informant, sitting in one of the molded plastic chairs near the door. She looks oddly familiar, though with her dark hair pulled up in a hasty, nondescript bun and her dark eyes red rimmed from crying, Ziva cannot place from where. The stranger shifts under the Israeli's gaze before returning to the paperback spread open on her lap.

And it's the _Deep Six_ novel peeking out from under the oversized MIT sweatshirt on the adjacent chair that give the girl's identity away.

"Sarah?"

She looks up from the book she's reading, her eyebrows knitting together as they settle on Ziva once more. And it takes a moment for recognition to light up in her soft brown eyes, but when it does, she offers the older woman a friendly smile. "I remember you," Sarah McGee says, and Ziva is struck by how much she resembles her brother. "You work with Tim. It's Zena, right?"

"Ziva," she corrects gently as the nurse retreats quietly, leaving them alone. She nods to the chair beside Sarah. "Is this seat taken?"

Sarah shakes her head, pulling her jacket and her brother's novel into her lap by way of invitation. "At least I knew it wasn't Lisa," she says good-naturedly as the older woman chuckles.

Ziva sits down gingerly, wincing when her sore muscles tense and her bruises throb in protest. "Are you okay?" Sarah asks, eyeing Ziva's sling as Ziva is once again reminded of McGee's sweet disposition.

"I will be fine," she reassures, waving the concern off. "I am just a bit knocked up. How is your brother doing? Any improvement?" And she tries to sound hopeful and encouraging and all those things she's never been good at.

Sarah worries her bottom lip for a heartbeat or two and Ziva immediately goes on edge. "He's . . . awake," she says slowly, uncertainly. "But he's confused. He thought I was Mom, which is bizarre if only because I'm twenty-four and she just turned sixty. The doctors said that was normal, though, especially since he's had memory loss before."

"The car accident," Ziva says, recalling a conversation she'd witnessed between he and Tony years ago.

"Yeah," Sarah says softly. "Totaled the Camaro. Dad was pissed . . ." and she smiles a bit at the memory before sobering up again. "It wasn't like this, though; I mean, I was still really little, but I don't remember him being so confused." Her voice tapers off and she rests her forehead against her hand, and Ziva feels a pang of sympathy for her.

"Are your parents here?" she asks gently, touching Sarah's arm lightly.

Again, Sarah shakes her head. "They're out of the country, in Italy. They should be in the air now, though, heading back stateside. I live in New York, you know, and when I got that phone call-" her words get stuck her throat and she makes a funny gulping noise as her eyes begin to well. "Oh God," she whispers, choking back a sob. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Ziva says quietly, reaching for Sarah's free hand and giving it a squeeze. "You have been very brave." And Sarah's crying in earnest now, leaning her head on Ziva's shoulder as Ziva pats her back soothingly.

"I was so scared," she weeps, and she sounds so lost. "I mean, he's my big brother . . . He's supposed . . . supposed to be in-invincible, you know? He -he's not s-supposed to get blown up and almost d-d-die. How c-could I live without my –my brother?"

And, oh, Ziva wishes she could offer McGee's sister some sage advice on the indomitable mortality of big brothers, but, alas, her experience on the matter is unpromising. All she can do is provide Sarah with a warm shoulder and tight embrace, and commonplace reassurances that have long grown stale.

. . .

When she calls him, he's in the shower, trying to coax the knots in his back out with scalding water set to pressure washer standards. Fortunately, she leaves him a message, which consists of her current location and nothing more. But as he listens to the voicemail, he can hear everything she doesn't say: Like the fact that she's trying really hard to mask the sound of tears in her voice.

She doesn't say she needs him.

But he hears it anyway.

It takes him five minutes to pull on a pair of worn jeans and a clean shirt, grab his shoes, and lock his apartment door.

...

He steps into the darkened sanctuary, his eyes taking too long to adjust to the dimmed lighting. She's sitting several rows back from the first pew in the front, her silhouette illuminated by the pale firelight of the two candelabras flanking the Tabernacle.

Her head is bowed, her hair a curtain of untamed curls that obscures her face, and he can't tell if she's praying or asleep.

"A Jew and a lapsed Catholic walk into a church," he says as he sits down beside her, staring up at the stained glass windows high above them. "Sounds like a bad joke, doesn't it?"

And out of the corner of his eye, he sees her lift her head up, her mouth quirking up in a wry grin. "What is the punch line?" she asks softly, turning to watch his profile. And he seems to ponder his answer for a moment before replying, "Probably the Irishman."

"I went to see him," she confesses, closing her eyes and leaning back against the hard wooden pew. "I know I shouldn't have gone, but I needed to see him. I had these dreams last night where he . . ." and she can't quite bring herself to admit that her sadistic unconscious finished the work of the madman's bomb.

Tony just watches her, waiting patiently for her to continue.

"He woke up this morning," she says, picking absently at a loose thread on her sweater. "I spoke to Sarah -you remember Sarah?"

"The twisted sister?" he asks jokingly, trying to alleviate some of the melancholy in her features. But he doesn't try hard enough and her eyes remain sad. "Yeah," he sighs. "She's a hard one to forget."

"She is a nice girl," Ziva amends, avoiding his gaze. "She is in graduate school in New York now."

"Really?" And he is impressed –though it shouldn't come as a surprise since she is, after all, a McGee.

"Yes," Ziva continues. "Their parents are out of the country . . . She must have been terrified, Tony." And now she's looking at him, and her dark eyes are shiny, and there are shadows lurking beneath her lower lashes. And _she_ had been terrified.

"Nobody wants to get that call, Ziva," he says gently, reaching for her hand, though she moves it to cross her arms over her chest before he can touch her.

She takes a deep, shuddering breath. "She said . . . She said she couldn't imagine life without him. 'Big brothers are supposed to be invincible.'" And she's crying now, large tears rolling slowly down her face. "And I _know_, Tony! I know _exactly_ what she means! But what c-could I say . . . H-how could I-?" Her voice breaks as a sob bubbles up from her chest, and now she's leaning forward and burying her face in her hands. And she would be embarrassed, but Tony's already seen her at her lowest and she just can't seem to sum up the energy to care.

He reaches for her, wrapping his arm around her shoulders, pulling her to him. And she goes willingly, turning her face into his chest, clutching at his cotton shirt like it's a lifeline.

"Shh," he murmurs, pressing a kiss into her hair and rubbing small circles into her back. "Hey, now. Shh."

And his heart shatters for her when she whispers, brokenly, "_I_ lost_ my _brother, Tony . . _. _I . . ._ killed _my_ brother . . ."_

And he just holds her tighter still.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: I move into my dorm room in nine -NINE- days. Holy canoli, batman. This is more of a bridge chapter than anything else, because I thought Tony and Ziva really needed a friend after the last chapter I put them through. This picks up directly after chapter seven. Keep the peace, much love, always, Kit!**

**DISCLAIMER: I have food poisoning -not copyrights. Please don't sue.**

**Chapter VIII**

By the time they leave the church, it is almost nightfall. The streetlights are casting a warm glow on the sidewalks as cars drive past with people intent on getting home for dinner. There are families with children laughing nearby and a young couple is strolling hand in hand on the other side of the street having just left the corner bistro. Everything and everyone continues to go on, unaware of the emotional turmoil that had just transpired in the quiet church.

Tony holds the heavy wooden door open as Ziva exits, hitching her bag higher up on her shoulder restlessly.

"Have you eaten?" he asks suddenly, and she pauses, glancing back toward him, her eyebrows furrowing together.

"No," she says slowly, almost as if asking a question in response, as if she's uncertain of his motives.

He smiles reassuringly. "You wanna go grab a burger? My treat."

And she feels her lips curve up in a smile as she nods, "Okay."

And Tony beams at her, offering his elbow for her to take, but she waves him off, chuckling.

...

He takes her to a place called Samson's –a modest little establishment with red vinyl barstools and an old-fashioned jukebox that delights Ziva. The air is heavy with the smell of frying oil and sounds of burgers sizzling amidst the noise of conversation. The black and white checkered linoleum is shiny and a waitress, dressed in civilian clothes and an apron, moves between the stainless steel tables easily while balancing a tray of milkshakes.

Ziva turns to Tony. "You didn't tell me they had milkshakes."

He grins, steering her toward the counter. "I figured you'd want to be surprised."

The man behind the counter glances up from the army of patties he's grilling and smiles at Tony in apparent recognition. "Hey, stranger," he greets good-naturedly, offering them a warm smile as he slides over to the Steno pad resting on beside the register. "Been a while."

Tony smiles back apologetically, "Yeah, well, you know, life."

"I hear ya, son," the man commiserates knowingly, poising his pen over the page. "So what'll it be for you and your lady friend here?"

Tony glances back at Ziva, who raises her eyebrows in response. She doesn't appear to be forthcoming with her answer, so he takes the initiative and says, "My usual and a classic cheeseburger with extra cheese and bacon, but hold the pickles and mayo."

"How do you want that cooked?"

"Mine medium rare, hers well done."

"Fries?"

"Of course."

"Drinks?"

And Tony casts a sideways look at the woman lingering beside him. "Two mudslides, please."

"That it?"

Tony nods.

"Alright, then, son. Take a seat anywhere you like, I'll have your order up ASAP," the man, whose nametag says Bud in large block print, says. Tony smiles brightly before guiding Ziva over to an empty booth in the corner. Bud watches them go with a small, private smile before calling out, "Leo! Leo –get your skinny ass back in here, smoking break's over!"

Ziva looks back toward the counter in time to see a lanky youth come slouching from the kitchen, his headphones draped lazily around his neck and his fingers scrambling to his apron strings. Bud hands the kid Tony and Ziva's order as another couple walks up to the counter.

"How did you find this place?" she asks suddenly, turning away from the nearly full restaurant to look at Tony.

He shrugs, reaching over to fiddle with a packet of sugar. "My favorite bartender told me about this place a coupla years ago and then it turned out it was Abby's favorite after-bowling haunt so . . . I didn't find this place. It kind of found me."

"I've got two mudslides," says a lyrical voice, raised above the din. It's the waitress Ziva had seen earlier, a young girl around Leo's age. Her dark hair is tied back in a sloppy bun with a chopstick stabbed through it and she as a tongue ring that glints when she talks. "Your meals'll be up soon," she says as she sets down a tall glass holding what surely must be heaven liquefied.

A mudslide, apparently, is a double chocolate milkshake that tastes like brownie batter, topped with real whipped cream and so much hot fudge Ziva thinks the ice cream will melt. Chocolate sprinkles are dumped liberally amongst a spoonful of Marshmallow fluff and chopped nuts.

Tony watches her in mild fascination as she stares, awestruck, at the confection before her. Biting the inside of his cheek to curb his smile, he passes her a spoon wordlessly, grinning like an idiot when she takes her first bite and seems to dissolve in bliss.

"Good?" he asks teasingly, and she nods, rolling her eyes exaggeratedly.

"Yes," she says, already digging up another spoonful of mudslide.

And there's something so incredible in the simplicity of the moment, but Tony doesn't have time to linger on it. Really, he's just happy she's happy.

...

"So," he says slowly, casually letting the thought trail off into the humid night air. They're walking down the sidewalk, arms brushing, making their way back to where Ziva parked her car, a block away from the church. Dinner had been delicious, of course, and they had settled into a post-meal silence, merely enjoying one another's company.

Ziva makes a noncommittal noise and possibly, maybe, leans into Tony slightly. "So," she echoes.

"So . . . You got plans for tomorrow?" And if this catches her off guard, she doesn't show it.

"I think tomorrow will be . . . uneventful," she says thoughtfully, carefully. "What about you?"

"Same."

"Tony?"

"Yeah?"

"I might go to the farmer's market down the street from my apartment. There is a craft fair that will be there." It's an invitation of sorts, and he knows this, recognizes this. Greedily accepts this.

He nods, "Good to know."

And she smiles.

And they continue on down the sidewalk.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Okay. So. I'm baaaaaack! (Please put down the rocks? Thank you!) Okay! Hi everybody! Geez, is anyone still following this thing? That was quite a (unintentional) break, huh? I just got SO incredibly busy! I started college, moved in the dorm (my roommate is wonderful, by the way), and got acquainted with the place I will live (hopefully) for the next four years. It was all so very perfect, and so very overwhelming, but that's okay. I'm settled and ready to tackle a degree in biology (or biochemistry –I'm still on the fence). I'm also ready to get to work on ALAWBSL because the season premier is twenty one (!) days away! Which is all kinds of awesome. So, hopefully, I will be updating this thing twice a week (don't hold me to that) instead of once (or, as has been the pattern this past month, never), if that's okay with everybody? Yeah? Good. So. Here we go! More angst! Much love, keep the peace, until next time, Kit!**

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own it.**

**IX**

"What if this storm ends and I don't see you as you are now, ever again?" _The Lightning Strike_, _Snow_ _Patrol_

He goes to Gibbs' after he and Ziva part ways. He hasn't spoken to his since the day before and even then it had all been about business. Palmer had started the autopsies of the nine NCIS employees who had passed away, not including Jonathon Cole and Harper Dearing. The entire Navy Yard had been temporarily relocated to Quantico while reconstruction is underway. Because, though headquarters didn't burn to the ground, it certainly sustained damage.

Rather or not the orange paint makes a reappearance is yet to be seen.

He doesn't knock on the front door because he knows it's unlocked –because Gibbs is, after all, predictable even when the whole world seems backwards. Quietly, he steps into the darkened foyer.

There are no lights on in the living room and Tony pauses for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the pale moonlight that filters through the windows and douses everything in an ethereal glow. Gibbs isn't on the couch where Tony suspects that Gibbs usually sleeps and he wonders vaguely where the older man has gone when something wholly out of place catches his eye.

A small black backpack is slumped on the bottommost step of the staircase, the tiny white skull-and-crossbones print seeming to glow in the darkness. He recognizes this particular bag, though he's only ever seen it in a completely different context, tucked away neatly in Abby's basement office, right beneath her carefully disorganized desk.

"You gonna stand there or come in?" Gibbs asks from the kitchen doorway, his version of a warm greeting.

Tony blinks twice before following the older man into the kitchen.

"Abby here?" he asks once he's seated at Gibbs' kitchen table, his fingers absently tracing the scarred surface.

Gibbs nods from his post beside the countertop where the coffeemaker gurgles and splutters like a drowning man. "Been a rough couple of days, DiNozzo," he replies gruffly.

"I'm surprised she's not at the hospital holding an all night vigil."

Gibbs shrugs. "She's tired."

And Tony completely empathizes because he, too, is exhausted regardless how much sleep he seems to get.

Soon the bittersweet smell of coffee permeates the small kitchen and Gibbs comes over to the table bearing two steaming mugs. He sets one mug before Tony with a _thunk_ before sitting down across from him with his own cup, an old chipped U.S.M.C. mug that has seen many mornings. Tony wraps his palms around the warmth after reading the words printed on the side of the ceramic surface: Don't talk to me until I've had my coffee. It's the kind of thing Abby would give as a joke and Tony wonders if Gibbs gave it to him unconsciously or this is a deliberate message that should be heeded.

Regardless, it's sage advice from a coffee mug.

"McGee's awake," Gibbs says after several minutes of silence.

Tony sits up straighter, clutches his coffee cup tighter. "How is he?" he asks, not bothering to mask his concern. Gibbs offers him a shrug.

"He's awake," he repeats, and if this is supposed to be a comfort, it isn't.

"Boss-"

"He's in bad shape, DiNozzo," Gibbs says, setting his mug back down onto the table and fixing a steely gaze on his senior agent. "The doctors compared it to a stroke. Right now he's paralyzed on his left side."

Tony pales slightly. "But it's not permanent-"

"I don't know."

"Well, what did his doctors say?" And the follow-up comes out more biting than intended, but, frankly, Tony doesn't care: McGee is paralyzed and Gibbs is being cavalier and, damn it, he wants answers.

"They don't know," Gibbs says patiently.

It's the wrong answer.

"How the hell can they not know?" Tony demands, his fist hitting the table and making the coffee slosh out.

"Tony."

He deflates suddenly, shoulders slumping as he buries his face in his hands. "Sorry, boss. I just . . ."

"I know."

"Did you see him?" Tony asks, looking up warily. He wonders if he really wants to know.

Gibbs nods. "Briefly. He was confused from the meds and his eyesight might have been affected. He recognized Abby and he recognized me, which is good."

"What do we do now?"

Gibbs offers him another shrug. "Keep moving forward, keep rebuilding. It'll come."

It'll come.

"How's Abby?" _Brilliant_ _segue, DiNozzo. Brilliant._

"Abby's tough, she'll get through it."

Now it's Tony's turn to fix Gibbs with a look. "That's not what I asked."

"She's sad, DiNozzo," Gibbs says quietly. "Hell, she's heartbroken. But she's optimistic. As far as Abby is concerned, we'll all come out of this on the other side."

He's afraid that the other side won't look much like this side.

"Should I do anything?" And he needs a task, he needs a job. Something, anything to keep him busy –he's less destructive when he's busy-

"How's Ziva holding up?"

_Ziva_.

Tony pauses to consider this, only to have a steady montage of memories come flooding in: Ziva panicking in the elevator, wrist broken and forehead bleeding; Ziva sitting on the examination table at the hospital, her face unreadable, her façade firmly fixed. Her expression later that night when she needed help washing her hair; the way the whole bed shuddered as she sobbed into his chest after he told her about Dorneget. How her voice sounded so flat when he broke the news about Dearing; how her voice broke in the church three hours earlier when she told him about Sarah and Ari. But he can't tell Gibbs any of this; how could he? Not only is it all so very personal and sensitive, but how can he even begin to express the depth of emotion that his partner has experienced in the past three days? "How do you think? She's putting on her soldier face, same as always," Tony says carefully, trying to get the phrasing right.

Gibbs, though, can hear the hesitation. "But?"

And did he honestly think he could pull one over Leroy Jethro Gibbs? Tony sighs. "But," he amends, "there are cracks in her armor, Boss."

Gibbs doesn't seem surprised. "Cracks in everybody's armor, DiNozzo."

Tony nods in agreement. "Hers are bigger this time. I –I don't think she's gonna be able to hold it together this time, I think it's taking a toll on her." And this is one of his biggest fears, really, that Ziva David is burning out.

"She's not superhuman, Tony."

"I know that!" he says too loudly before remembering that Abby is sleeping somewhere above them. "I know that," he repeats, quietly. "It's just . . . She's tired, you know? Hell, I'm tired."

"We're all tired."

"Yeah."

And they really need to rest.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Here you go! Much love, keep the peace, hang on tight, always, Kit.**

**P.S. Everyone do me a favor? Forgive each other, okay? Forgive each other or at the very least, let it go. And love. Always, always choose love. Always.**

**DISCLAIMER: Yes.**

**Chapter X**

_"_They made a statue of us." _Us, Regina Spektor_

The following morning dawns bright with a clear, cloudless sky. Ziva takes her time getting up and making herself some toast before lounging around in her pajamas, enjoying a glass of cranberry juice and an episode of House Hunters International.

It's a quarter 'til ten by the time she finds herself wandering down the block toward the hum of the farmer's market on the next street. Tents are set up along the sidewalks with people peddling everything from homemade soaps and cheeses to hand knit scarves and blankets. A group of children are holding signs advertising fresh lemonade and she produces a dollar for a cup, much to the delight of the children. Music lingers in the air, the twanging hum of a steel guitar harmonizing with the light notes of a violin and the folksy vocals of a small blonde perched on a bar stool. She's singing a sweet song about statues and mountaintops and love and Ziva finds herself smiling at some of the lyrics as she moves closer to peruse the neighboring vegetable stall.

Her cell phone vibrates in her pocket and she slips it out, pressing it to her ear and offering up a warm, "Hello."

"Special Agent David," and she shouldn't be surprised to hear Vance's careful voice on the other end of the line, but she is anyway.

"Director," she returns amicably, watching a mother shepherd her young son away from a crate of onion s. "What can I do for you?"

"You can meet me this afternoon if you're available."

"I am free at two."

"Two is fine. How's the wrist?"

She shrugs, even though he can't possible see the motion. "Useless," she tells him truthfully as she directs a scornful glance at the arm resting limply in the sling at her side. "It does not hurt, though."

"Good to hear. So I'll see you at two this afternoon?"

"Yes. Where exactly, though, am I meeting you?"

"Right –temporarily set up shop in Quantico."

"Quantico. Okay. I will see you then, yes?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Shalom, Director."

And she's just re-pocketed her phone when Tony happens to find her, right between the tomatoes and cucumbers. He doesn't call out hello immediately, though, taking a moment to appreciate the sight before him of Ziva David, ninja extraordinaire, shopping for something as mundane as vegetables. And he almost didn't recognize her; after all, her athletic shorts and tank top ensemble blend in remarkably well with every other coed nearby. In fact, most of her more distinguishing characteristics are absent; her combat boots have been exchanged for relatively new pair of Nikes, and her dark hair, usually styled, is tied up in a simple ponytail. The only thing that gave her away, oddly enough, is the navy sling concealing her broken wrist.

He pretends to bump into her accidently, biting back a chuckle as she hurriedly apologizes until she realizes who he is.

"Tony," she says and, yes, her eyes did light up a bit there when she noticed him.

"Good morning, Zee-vah," he returns with a smile. "Fancy meeting you here."

"Yes," she agrees, playing along. "It is quite a, ah, tiddly-wink, yes?"

"Coinkydink."

"Like coincidence?"

"Precisely," he says with a nod. Then, "Do you smell churros?"

And she offers him a grin, holding up the tomatoes she picked. "I'm going to go purchase these and then we will go find your churros, yes?"

"Yes!"

. . .

They do, in fact, find churros, but the homemade ice cream wins out and they retreat to a shady place in the park across the street to eat. Melting ice cream drips down Ziva's fingers as she watches a group of teenagers progress in an impromptu soccer game several yards away. Laughter and cheering mingle in the humid air with the sound of birds bickering and squirrels chittering and Tony complaining of a brain-freeze beside her. And the empty bench they found is long, but the bird droppings that mottled the leftmost end force the two to sit side by side, their shoulders brushing. And, yes, it's hot outside, and much too hot to be sitting in such close proximity to another human being, they cannot bring themselves to mind. Ziva smiles to herself, relishing the semblance of normalcy that she realizes she'd sorely been missing.

Eventually, she interrupts the silence, asking casually, "Any plans for the rest of the day?" And, really, she's just trying to make polite conversation.

He casts a sideways glance and a lopsided smirk in her direction. "I can't tell if you're asking because you crave my company or because you're sick of me and are hoping for an easy out."

"I suppose given your personality it could go both ways."

He pouts at her in jest before looking away and she knows she might have hurt his feelings a little bit there.

"Tony," she starts, her tone holding the proverbial olive branch of peace.

"I have something at three," he says and she nods in acknowledgement, of both his previous engagement and implied pardon.

"I have a meeting with Vance at two."

His curiosity seems piqued and he angles his body -while consciously avoiding the bird droppings- so he can face her better. "Yeah?"

She nods, focusing on the spot just beyond his shoulder. "Mm-hm. I thought it was odd."

Tony merely shrugs and shakes his head, "Nah, he's just checking in, I'm sure. It's been a rough couple of weeks." And it is a glorious understatement.

"It has," she agrees quietly, and he immediately recognizes her pensive voice. She's been so relaxed and relatively unconcerned all morning and he's gone and ruined it with his big mouth.

"McGee's awake," he blurts, if only to keep her from withdrawing into her headspace.

Dark eyes snap to green. "Really?" she asks excitedly, and all her intense contemplation suddenly vanishes. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?" she demands without giving him time to answer. "How is he?"

And now he has to be careful; he wants to tell her what Gibbs had told him, but he doesn't want to see that helpless, brokenness enter her eyes again, not when it's only now just gone away. So he settles for evasiveness, and what he hopes is reassuring nonchalance. "He's doing okay, I mean, I haven't actually spoken to him, but Gibbs says he's doing better." And it sounds neutral, yet encouraging to his ears, at least.

"Do you know if he can have visitors?"

Damn.

"Uh," _think fast, DiNozzo_, "I'm not sure. I'll tell you what –tomorrow afternoon you and I will go down there and see, okay? You can help keep my mind off how creepy hospitals are." And though his execution is flawed, his logic is convincing.

"Fine," she agrees with a smile as he stands up, offering her his hand.

They exchange their goodbyes before parting ways. And he's taken about three steps before her voice calls out, teasingly, "I cannot help but wonder, though, Tony, if you aren't just making an excuse to see me tomorrow."

And he smiles to himself before glancing at her over his shoulder. "An excuse to see you, sweetcheeks? Always."


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: Let's shake DiNozzo up a little bit, shall we?**

**DISCLAIMER: If I made any profit off of this, then I wouldn't be so freaking behind.**

**XI.**

"You start to wonder why you're here, not there." _Stop and Stare_, _OneRepublic_

After he and Ziva decide where to meet the following morning, he heads home to clean himself up and grab a bite of lunch before he has to be at his three o'clock appointment. He takes his time showering, standing as long as he can under the spray, letting the hot water beat against his bruised skin and sore muscles until he absolutely cannot take any more.

It takes him twenty minutes to get downtown where he needs to be and when he finally finds a place to park, he is in desperate need of caffeine. Fortunately, there is a Starbucks on the corner and he has a few minutes until his appointment to stop in and get an espresso.

The place is busy, but not overly crowded. A young girl is working the register while an older guy with an earring takes care of the orders. There are two women in line ahead of him and he waits patiently while they specify the amount of whipped cream and foam they want, and when it's finally his turn, he steps up to the counter and gives the barista a warm smile. "I promise I won't order anything special."

And she returns his smile with her own, mouthing her thanks. "What can I get you?" she asks kindly and he tells her what his usual is.

It's going to take a minute to get his drink to him because one of the women from before is causing a mild commotion about the foam in her latte after she asked for none. The guy with the earring is trying to smooth everything over while he makes her another, free of charge, if only, Tony thinks, to get her to shut up.

He sits down at the empty table by the door –perhaps the only empty table in the place- and glances around curiously, already tuning out the argument at the counter. The hipster next to him is scrolling through Reddit, while the woman in the corner booth gestures wildly while speaking in rapid fire Spanish. She's smiling, though, so he assumes the conversation is a good one.

"Agent DiNozzo?"

And he startles, tensing up and immediately regretting it as his back spasms in protest. He glances up at the man standing uncertainly before him and tries to place the face with a name while getting his breathing under control because, damn, his back hurts.

"I'm so sorry," the stranger says concernedly, grey eyes surprised behind thick black frames. And then Tony remembers.

"Mr. Rodriguez," he says in recognition, and the other man nods.

"Mike, please."

"Mike," Tony concedes, nodding to the chair across from him Mike sits down gratefully, placing a steaming cup of what smells suspiciously like hot chocolate before him. And the Tony is hit with the realization that he now has to navigate his way through what could possibly amount to an emotional landmine because, hello, Michael Rodriguez lost his lover only a handful of days ago. After a flailing silence on Tony's part, he finally comes up with an earnest, "How're you holding up?"

Mike shrugs, wrapping his hands around his disposable coffee cup. He seems to give this question consideration, as if weighing what words would convey his grief accurately without completely overwhelming Tony, a virtual stranger. "I've been better," he says after a pause, lifting his gaze to Tony. "I just got back from seeing Ned's sister over in Bethesda –she's devastated. We, uh, we're having his . . . his funeral on Thursday, next week. His sister, Noelle, and I are taking him back home to Ohio . . ."

"I went to school in Ohio," Tony says lamely, utterly at loss as to what to say to this man. "Class of '93."

Mike smiles, "Kent State, class of '04 . . . It's where I met Ned."

"Yeah? I didn't know he graduated from Kent."

"Yeah," Mike says softly.

Tony debates on rather or not he should ask the question suddenly on the tip of his tongue, but he decides that Mike seems to want to talk about Dorneget, and Tony won't deny him that comfort –after all, he's been there. "How long were you guys together?"

Mike smiles absently to himself, watching the traffic outside the window, just beyond Tony's shoulder.

"We were together all throughout college," he says after a pause. "He was incredible; brilliant, funny, loved dogs. I don't know about him, but it was love at first sight . . . which is why I've been asking myself why I let us take that break. I joined the Peace Corps shortly after we graduated, and he had just started working toward his Masters, and we tried the long distance thing, but after a year, we decided to take a break. We parted civilly, you know, but it was still bad . . ." Mike's voice fades as he considers something. "Actually," he says decisively, "it was stupid. We were stupid. We had this awesome thing and we messed it up. I didn't hear from him for almost three years, and then I one day I walk into a coffee house to get a latte and there's Ned. I couldn't believe it: I mean, how many people get handed a second chance? How lucky were we? And you know, it was like nothing ever changed. It was seamless . . . I know I probably sound crazy, Agent DiNozzo, but I wouldn't trade the seven years I had with him for anything, even knowing how it ends. I loved the guy," he says softly.

Tony's still caught up in the part about second chances when he realizes that Mike's stopped talking. It takes his brain a few seconds to process the end of the story before he finds himself standing suddenly.

"You don't," he tells him seriously and at Mike's confused expression, he clarifies: "You don't sound crazy. About the second chance thing. I know where you're coming from." _How many people get handed a second chance? Hell_, Tony thinks, _I'm on my fifth, at least. _

"You got somebody, Agent DiNozzo?" Mike asks empathetically, recognizing the far off look in the older man's eyes.

"Yeah," Tony breaths. "Yeah, I do."

"Good," Mike says with a smile before his face falls a bit. "Do me a favor, though? Don't waste a single second of your time together; don't lose those three years Ned and I did. My biggest regret in life is those three years. Don't have that regret."

And Tony looks at Michael Rodriguez, at the man who lost the love of his life, and he does the only thing he can think of: He excuses himself and bolts.

And he gets halfway down the street when he realizes he forgot his espresso.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: HAPPY PREMIER EVERYBODY! **

**DISCLAIMER: If I owned it, those poor actors would never get a break.**

**Chapter XII**

"This is our last chance, so give me your hand, because our world is spinning at the speed of light." _Animal, Ke$ha_

Her office is in the very back of the building, tucked away in a quiet corner on the second floor. It's Saturday and many of the other offices are empty, the lights turned off and everything locked up. Her door is open and he can see her sitting behind her desk, her head bowed as she writes something in a file. He pokes his head around the door sheepishly, plastering his most charming smile on his face.

"You're late," she says without looking up, her pen making a scratching noise against the paper. The air-conditioner hums to life softly as he sits down gingerly on the nearest couch, his back tensing in protest. He glances around the room while he waits for her to say something first, even though he's the one that's paying to talk.

There's a coffee mug with one of the psalms painted on the ceramic to the right of her elbow. She's left her computer on and he can see the picture on her desktop of her and who he assumes is her husband, sitting on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial with a smiling beagle between them. Last time he was in here and could see her home screen, she had a picture of the same beagle going cross-eyed at the Christmas ribbon that had been pressed to its forehead. He had commented on it then and she had told him the dog's name was Pavlov. He told her that was a weird name for a dog; she told him to Google it.

There's another photograph on her desk of her and her sister standing at the edge of the ocean, the sea breeze whipping their hair in their faces. Both women are laughing and smiling at the camera, their arms around each other's shoulders, the closeness of their relationship palpable. The first time he visited this office, he hadn't been expecting a lot of things, but he really hadn't been expecting that picture.

He's just finished studying the bronze nameplate at the edge of her desk, and the "Dr. Rachel M. Cranston, Ph.D. Licensed Psychologist" engraved across the polished surface in bold typeface.

Dr. Cranston sighs and sets her pen down, closes her file and leans back in her chair, balancing her elbows on the armrests and regarding her patient over her steepled fingers. "How are you doing?" she asks finally, giving him a small smile.

He shrugs –and immediately regrets the movement. "Sore," he grouses halfheartedly, but that isn't what she meant and he knows it. "I'm doing okay."

"Only okay?"

He tilts his head back to study the ceiling tiles. "Yeah," he answers after a moment. "I'm still processing, I guess. Everything's real jumbled."

"So your emotions are mixed up," she restates. "Do you find that overwhelming?"

"Pretty much, yeah." _Duh_.

She nods, "That's normal, though, Tony. You experienced a substantial emotional trauma; I'd be concerned if you weren't feeling overwhelmed. What have your last few days been like since I saw you Wednesday afternoon? Have you spoken with your colleagues?" And he notices that she doesn't say family because she is already aware of those circumstances.

He nods, "Spoke to Gibbs the other night, and I saw Ziva earlier. McGee's not doing too good." And then he tells her what Gibbs had told him, that McGee might have permanent damage, that things might not go back to the way they were. And somehow, he finds himself confessing that he's scared, and angry, and so damn confused. He admits that he's worried about his team, that he's worried about Ducky, and McGee, and Ziva because there are more cracks in her armor than there were before and that terrifies him. And he may have mentioned that the thought of not seeing her every day, just might kill him.

"And then," he continues, now fully entrenched in his rant, "I run into Ned Dorneget's life partner, and he's just lost the love of his life, you know? And I, I know exactly what it feels like –I know what having those regrets, those things unsaid –I know exactly where he's coming from! And it seems like the whole damn universe is trying to tell me something, and I know what it is –hell, how many life or death situations have we been in –have I been in? How many people have died right before our eyes? How many times have I thought to myself 'tell her' and then kept my big mouth shut? And we can't get it together? No –I can't get it together. I can't accept the fact-" and here his mind catches up with his mouth and he silences himself immediately.

Dr. Cranston regards him calmly from her desk. "You can't accept what fact, Tony?"

"The fact of life?" he says, coming up with the first thing that comes to mind –which is impressive, he thinks, since his mind is pretty messed up at the moment.

But Dr. Cranston shakes her, not letting him off the hook. "You what to know what I think, Tony? I think that you're too afraid to take a chance; I think you're coming up with any excuse you can think of to offset the fact that you are in love with your partner and it scares the hell out of you. These life or death situations, Tony? The ones that make you question your choices and rather or not you were right to deny yourself the knowledge of rather or not a relationship with Ziva would work? I can tell you right now, it would probably work out –it would probably be everything you've ever wanted it to be. But you'll never know because you won't ask. And I think that's really dumb. Life is unpredictable, Tony. You know that better than anyone. You've spent the last ten years avoiding commitment to the one woman who would make you work for it because you loved Wendy and she left you, and you love Ziva and she might leave you, but she might not. Ziva's not like Wendy, Tony. She's still here. You want my advice? Man up and tell her you love her."

He stares at her, dumbstruck, for what feels like several minutes. And he wants to tell her that he never loved Wendy like he loves Ziva, he never would have gone to the end of the Earth for Wendy like he did for Ziva. He just nods once, stands, thanks her, and leaves.

It feels like the something inside him has shifted.


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: 'Cause I love you all and it's still premiere night! Much love, keep the peace, Kit!**

**DISCLAIMER: Nope.**

**XIII**.

"One step closer." _A Thousand Years, Christina Perri_

The following morning, he and Ziva go to visit the hospital bound. He isn't entirely sure what he's expecting, but when he walks through the door and into the private room, he honestly was expecting worse.

McGee is not-quite-propped up in the hospital bed with half a dozen wires and tubes disappearing under the pristine linens. Cuts litter his pale face from where the windows had been blown into him, though only a few gashes were deep enough to warrant stitches: Most of the scrapes have been left unbandaged, all thin red lines crisscrossing his forehead and cheeks. Bruises mottle the skin on his shoulder where his hospital gown has slipped down, and Tony winces internally at the dark purple shadowing his collarbone. His head had been shaved, though a few random patches escaped the shearing and poor McGee looks like a mange victim.

His eyes brighten, though, when he sees that he has company, the left side of his mouth twitching up in a half-grin. "Hey," he whispers croakily as Ziva makes a beeline to his side, her own smile so radiant that Tony thinks planets should revolve around it.

"Hi," she returns warmly, her accent thick with emotion, and she leans down to press a kiss to the side of his head. "How are you feeling?" And it's such a ridiculous thing to ask and Tony knows this and she knows this, but what else is there to say?

McGee blinks and several seconds pass before he replies, slowly, "Much . . . better." And Tony's heart is somewhere in the vicinity of his shoes because the younger man's words are slightly slurred, almost as if he's had too much to drink.

_Or as if he's had a stroke_, says the little voice in the back of Tony's mind.

"You look like hell, kid," he says loudly, if only to drown out that niggling little voice. Ziva glares over her shoulder and McGee does that smirking thing again.

"That's what . . . Gibbs . . . said," he replies, clearly un-offended. Tony relaxes slightly.

"Sounds like the boss. How's the food?"

McGee glances at Ziva and rolls his eyes. She just smiles back at him and winks.

"Dunno, 'Nozzo . . . Can't have . . . any . . . thing . . . solid."

"Do you need something to drink, McGee?" Ziva asks, noticing the hoarseness in his voice. And Tony had forgotten that he'd been on a respirator for almost three days.

McGee gives her a grateful smile, "Please."

There's a Styrofoam cup and a plastic spoon on the tray near his bed, and while Ziva dutifully feeds McGee ice-chips, Tony watches quietly, unable to shake the fact that McGee isn't telling them something . . .

"I shall go get you some more ice, yes?" Ziva asks and Tony comes out of his reverie with a shake of his head. McGee is thanking her softly and she smiles at him, shrugging off his gratitude. "I do not mind, McGee, really."

Ziva stands up and looks over at Tony, cocking her head to the side as she sees the contemplation on his face. He's looking directly at her when he asks, "Hey, probie? Where's Abby?"

McGee closes his eyes, clearly thinking. "Chapel . . . pro'ly."

"Then I will go find ice and Abby," Ziva says with a nod. She tosses a quick wink over her shoulder at McGee and brushes up against Tony as she passes in front of him to get to the door. And soon as Ziva's gone and the door snicks shut again, Tony turns to McGee with raised eyebrows.

"Okay, what aren't you telling us?" he demands gently, eyes raking over the younger man, all pale and tired looking in the hospital bed.

McGee meets Tony's gaze with an unwavering stare that would make Gibbs proud, before surrendering without much protest. "I don't . . . want . . . you . . . to worry."

"Worry? Me? About you? Come on, Probie, when have I ever worried about you?" Tony asks in mock surprise.

"Tony," McGee says seriously and the older man sobers considerably.

Because he knows; he knows that McGee knows that Ziva isn't as impermeable as she once was, and he realizes McGee is trying to protect them, his team and his friends, from the pain that comes with the truth. And while Tony would rather shield Ziva from the cold hard facts, he needs to be in the know.

"Lay it on me, kid."

McGee takes a deep breath and focuses somewhere just beyond Tony's shoulder. When he speaks, his voice is as even as it can be, completely complacent and utterly unperturbed despite the slur to some words. "I had . . . bleeding . . . in my . . . brain . . . it did . . . some . . . damage."

"What kind of damage?"

"Kind . . . that may . . . may . . . not . . . go away . . . with time."

"McGee."

"I hit . . . the back . . . my head . . . occipital lobe . . . part . . . controls . . . vision."

"And?" Both men ignore the crack in his voice.

"Can't . . . see you . . . too good . . . D'Nozzo." And it's the rueful half-smile that nearly breaks Tony. He opens his mouth to say something –he doesn't know what- but McGee interrupts him with another blow: "Can't see . . . out . . . left eye . . . at all."

"Jesus, McGee-"

"S'okay."

"No," Tony murmurs, sinking down into the molded plastic chair beside the bed. "No, it isn't, Tim. It isn't okay."

"Hey," and Tony looks up to see McGee staring at him. "It is . . . We're . . . gonna be okay."

Tony takes these words and clings.

. . .

She decides to find the ice chips after she finds Abby because returning to McGee with a cup of water would be counterproductive.

She has always hated hospitals ever since she was a small child in Israel, and no matter how many years older she is, or what the circumstances are that even warrant the hospital visit, she maintains her dislike. Therefore, she doesn't waste time in trying to find the chapel on her own, instead opting to solicit the assistance of a kindly matron in Peanuts scrubs.

Seven minutes later and Ziva finds herself standing outside a small room tucked away in a quiet corner of the hospital, a simple plaque beside the doorframe reading: CHAPEL. She takes a deep breath and pushes open the door.

The air in the room is cool and still, and a palpable reverence seems to cling to the walls. There are small electric candles in little glass votives to the left of the door, the faux-flames flickering softly in the dimness of the room. On the right wall hangs a painting of the Christ, standing with his arms outstretched and rays of light streaming from Him. And it's a painting she's seen before, in several places, including the Church Tony had met her in the other day.

There's a small altar at the front of the room with two more flameless candles flanking the ends. A plain wooden cross is mounted to the wall just behind the altar, and Ziva finds that she likes the simplicity of it. Abby sits just to the left of the space in the first of the five rows of chairs. Her head is bowed and, as Ziva sits down beside her, she realizes that cherry red lips are moving soundlessly in prayer. A rosary is tangled in Abby's pale fingers and Ziva watches as she seems to touch a certain bead for several seconds before moving on to the next.

Eventually, Abby becomes aware of someone watching her and she opens her eyes, peering out from under a fringe of black bangs. When she realizes who is beside her though, she abandons her praying and launches herself at Ziva, practically climbing into the younger woman's lap.

"Ziva!" she whispers fiercely, squeezing her tightly. "It is so, so, _so_ good to see you! How are you?" And if Abby's enthusiasm is inappropriate in this quiet place, neither woman seems perturbed.

"Hello, Abby," Ziva returns, laughing. "I am well; I missed you."

"How's your wrist?" And now Abby draws back, scrutinizing Ziva at arm's length and then picking up her right wrist, surveying the plaster cast.

"It is better," she replies dismissively. "How are you doing? You've had a rough few days."

"Um, I was unscathed," and her tone of voice and the tilt of her head suggests that she doesn't understand Ziva's concern.

"You were blown up," Ziva points out gently.

"So were you!"

"Yes, but, you've been here with McGee-"

"Oh! How am I emotionally holding up? Is that what you mean?"

"Yes."

Abby looks thoughtful. "I'm still going through the five stages of grief, you know? I think I'm close acceptance, but still slightly depressed –though not, like, super depressed, just, like, sad."

Ziva blinks and studies the Goth for a moment; she's dressed as plainly as she's ever seen her: Black skinny jeans and a Pink Floyd t-shirt, Abby-issued boots and spiky dog collar. She doesn't seem depressed . . . "You are mourning Agent Dorneget?" she finally asks, confused.

"No . . . Well, yeah, of course, but I'm talking about McGee."

"But McGee isn't dead," she says slowly, emphatically.

"No, but-"

"Abby," Ziva says seriously, her heart suddenly in the vicinity of her shoes. "Is McGee dying?"

And Abby's eyes go wide, wide, wide. "What? No!" she says quickly, shaking her head. "No, no, no, no, _no_. I'm mourning what we used to be, as a team," she explains. "Especially since he probably won't get to go back into the field." And at Ziva's stricken expression, Abby recoils, asking quietly, "Tony and Gibbs didn't tell you?"

"Tell me what?" Ziva demands, ignoring the sinking feeling in her gut.

Abby's face softens. "Tim's showing signs of brain damage, Ziva. Right now he's paralyzed on one side."

She has a bit of trouble rationalizing that.

. . .

The hospital doors swish shut behind them and she stops right before they step out from under the awning and into the sunlight. He pauses beside her, casting her a curious glance, and she tilts her face up to look at him. "You did not tell me about McGee," she says.

Her voice holds no accusation, but he's guilty all the same. "Are you mad?" he asks cautiously, fighting back the urge to step out of range.

She releases a little sigh. "No."

He nods. "You okay?"

She looks away from him, stares out into the parking lot where the waves of heat rise off the asphalt. "I'm not the one who is likely paralyzed," she says after a pause, and her voice sounds slightly embittered.

"Hey," he murmurs quietly, taking a chance and reaching out, cupping her face and tilting her chin up gently so she'll meet his eyes once more. And her dark gaze is so sad his heartbreaks a little. "Abby said he's gained some mobility back," he tells her, hoping his voice is reassuring. "That's a good sign." And neither of them are sunny optimists –because that is Abby's area of expertise- but Ziva leans her face into his palm marginally, and suddenly everything seems a tad more sanguine.

"Why didn't you tell me?" she asks softly.

"Honestly? Because I didn't want you to be upset."

She seems to accept this; seems to be anticipating it, almost. "You were . . . protecting me?"

"Yes. I thought you said you weren't mad."

"I'm not mad." And she isn't, he can tell.

But he has to make sure: "Really?"

"Really, Tony." She sounds exasperated, but not mad. And he'll take her exasperation over her wrath any day.

He's still cupping her face as they stare at each other. And they've got to look ridiculous, standing before the main entrance of the hospital, clearly having a heart-to-heart as the wail of far off sirens meanders through the humid air.

"Go to dinner with me," he says suddenly, and while he would have expected the unexpectedness of his question to surprise him, it doesn't.

And the fact that it doesn't, in the end, doesn't really surprise him either.

"I went to dinner with you Friday," she says slowly, but he can tell she understands where he's going with this.

"No," he explains, lowering his hand from her cheek. "We went to Samson's on Friday. I'm talking about a nice dinner with you in a dress, me in a suit, and a bottle of wine."

"Tony . . ." And she's saying no.

"Go out on a date with me, Ziva," he insists, not ready to let this chance go. _Don't have those regrets_. "A real, honest-to-God date."

"Tony-"

"Say yes."

A look that he's secretly dubbed her thinking face passes over her features: Her eyebrows draw together, and the skin there puckers while the edges of her mouth slip down as she worries her lower lip between her teeth.

He finds himself panicking. "I won't quit asking you until you give in," he tells her jokingly, trying to alleviate some of the tension. And he's silently berating himself for ruining their moment.

She relaxes, a small smile gracing her lips. "I'm going to hold you to that, Tony," she tells him seriously, and his heart picks up as he realizes that the hesitation he saw, wasn't necessarily about him. "I need to take care of something first, though."

He nods, "I understand." And he does.

"That wasn't a 'no,'" she clarifies, eyeing him carefully.

He can't help but smile. "So you will go out with me?"

She smirks. "That was implied, yes."

"So _that's_ a 'yes'?"

"It isn't a 'no.'"

And he's grinning like an idiot. "I'll take it."

And they've got to look ridiculous, standing before the main entrance of the hospital, smiling at each other like teenagers as the wail of far off sirens meanders through the humid air.


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: *peers around corner checking for fire and pitchforks* Hi. So. Don't hate me? Please?**

**DISCLAIMER: *insert here***

Chapter XIV

The front door is, of course, unlocked, and she steps into his foyer certainly, placing her keys on a nearby table and shrugging her bag off her shoulder and onto the floor.

"Hello?" she calls out, listening intently for an answer that never comes. His truck is in the driveway and the garage door is up, but the man himself is not in the living room or the kitchen, and it doesn't sound as if he's upstairs either. She goes to the basement door and pushes it open, peering down into the dim space that does not yield the man she seeks.

Tamping down on the wave of worry that is lapping at the edge of her mind, she wanders back into the kitchen, where she happens to glance out the window. A grin pulls at her mouth at the sight of him in faded Levis and a worn t-shirt kneeling in the dirt beside what appears to be a small vegetable patch. And she doesn't know what is more endearing, the fact that her surely father figure has a green finger, or that he owns a straw sunhat with a wide brim.

She steps outside onto the wooden deck, blinking in the sunlight. There's a thump and she glances to her right, a smile tugging at her mouth as she spots a noble German shepherd sprawled in the shade of house. He lifts his graying muzzle and sniffs in her direction, his tail beating a steady greeting against the ground. She bends down to run her fingers through his fur, and he drops his head back down with a thud, releasing a mighty sigh. His dog-tags jingle as she ruffles his neck and she smirks at the skull-and-crossbones collar.

When she crosses the yard, she takes her time, wanting to look at the various plants and flowers on her way. There're tomato plants, and rose bushes, and a big, leafy green shrub with clusters of small white flowers blooming throughout it. Everything is lush and lively and he is man of many talents.

"You know," he says by way of greeting, once she's standing directly behind him, "you could get down here and help me." And he hasn't even looked up from what he's doing.

She smiles to herself, dropping to her knees gracefully, reaching forward and sinking her fingers into the cool soil before her. His hands work beside hers purposefully, dirt smeared across his skin all the way to his wrists, and he pulls another weed from the ground mercilessly, tossing it behind him. They work silently for a while, the only sounds that of a lawn mower several yards down and a pair of squirrels bickering in a nearby tree, before he finally says, "I was wondering when I'd see you."

"Oh?" she asks, her voice curious, yet detached, and there is something obviously on her mind.

"Yeah."

She pauses and turns to regard his profile, a smile flickering across her face. "You were not worrying about me, now, were you, Gibbs?" she asks lightheartedly.

He smirks. "You? Never. How's the arm?"

She shrugs, glancing down at her sling, wiggling her fingers unconsciously.

"It is better," she says honestly. "You have the dog, I see."

"Sparky? Yeah."

"I thought his name was Jethro?"

Gibbs raises his eyebrows. "Huh. I've just been calling him Sparky."

A companionable silence passes between them once more as they continue pulling weeds. Finally, Ziva pauses and says, "I have been doing a lot of thinking, lately; a lot of . . . _soul searching, _yes?" She glances over at him for confirmation.

He nods. "What'd ya find?"

"That I need to make a decision."

Another nod. "So why haven't you?" And there's no impatience in his voice, no irritation, no exasperation. She knows this is his way of helping, a gentle prodding to get her to think.

She chews her lower lip pensively, pausing to gather her thoughts. He doesn't press her, though, just continues pulling weeds, methodically, reassuringly. She sighs.

"I need to know," she says softly. "Do I owe you? After everything you have done for me, do I owe you?"

He pauses, leaning back on his heels. And she can feel his gaze on her, studying her, his emotions unreadable. "What are you getting at?" he finally asks.

She takes a breath, gathers her thoughts. Goes on. "For giving me a chance, after my betrayal to you; for rescuing me from that place. For giving me a job, helping me become a part of this country. You have done so much for me, Gibbs, and I need to know if I owe you –anything- for that."

"Ziva-"

"If you tell me to stay," she continues quietly, finally meeting his eyes, "I will."

He doesn't speak for several moments, then asks gently, "And if I told you to be happy?"

"Gibbs-"

"Ziver." She presses her lips together at the sound of his name for her; watches him with watering eyes. "All I want is you to be happy. You don't owe anyone anything -ever. All we ever wanted was you to be safe and happy."

She blinks, rapidly trying to clear her blurring vision. "Thank you, Gibbs," she murmurs, and he offers her a soft smile, climbing stiffly to his feet. He extends a hand down to her, and she grasps it, allows him to pull her up so she's standing beside him. And when he opens his arms to her, she goes willingly into the embrace, resting her head on his shoulder as he presses his lips to her temple.

And it's the kind of moment shared by a father and daughter.

. . .

It's only nine thirty and he's already falling asleep on his couch, the sounds of light-saber battles and a loudly breathing Sith lord providing adequate background noise to keep his wandering thoughts in check. When his cell phone first startles to life, he thinks it's part of the movie, but it isn't. And while he's tempted to ignore the call, curiosity –as well as a pesky sense of duty- gets the best of him and he reaches over and picks up the phone. A smile twitches at the edges of his mouth as all vestiges of sleep vanish when he reads Z. David on the caller ID because this has the potential to be all kinds of fun.

He presses the answer button and says in a bored voice, "Domino's Pizza, can I take your order?"

There is a pause, and he can practically hear her frowning before she says, slowly, uncertainly, "I am sorry, I have the wrong number." And she hangs up before he can come clean.

"Dammit," he mutters to himself, and he's about to hit redial when his phone rings again.

"DiNozzo."

He hears her heave a sigh of relief. "Are you home?" she asks and if this question is out of the ordinary to her, at least, she gives no indication. He, however, is suddenly wrestling with every implication of her calling him, and, yeah, he's probably blowing this way out of proportion, and, yeah, she probably is just calling to check in because he hasn't heard from her since the hospital three days ago, and-

"Tony," she says impatiently and he winces.

"Sorry. Uh, yeah, I'm home. Do you need-"

"I will be up in a minute."

"Oh. Okay." And he doesn't really know what to do about that. "I'll, uh, see you then."

His phone beeps as she disconnects the call.

There's a soft knock at his door four minutes later and he opens it, standing to the side as an invitation for her to come in. She brushes past him, sweeping into his living room and coming to a halt beside his coffee table.

Dark eyes are staring expectantly at him, only he doesn't know what she wants. He meets her gaze and offers her a careful smile and she seems to relax, marginally.

"Hello, Zee-vah," he says genially, drawing out the syllables in her name because he knows she's fond of it despite what she says to the contrary. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit this evening?"

She tilts her head to the side and regards him for another brief second. "We need to talk," she says carefully, and his heart seizes up a bit, but when he opens his mouth to respond, she holds her hand up to quiet him. "_But,_ I need you to hear me out first."

His pulse is suddenly racing beneath his t-shirt and trepidation shudders down his spine like ice water. He swallows and nods at her, perching himself on the armrest of his recliner, trying in vain to maintain his composure. He pantomimes zipping his lips and he thinks she understands the gesture because she doesn't question him.

"I talked to Director Vance on Saturday," she starts, and he would think this insignificant if she didn't avert her eyes. "We discussed my medical leave and he asked me to consider an . . . _opportunity_." She pauses, briefly, as if expecting him to interrupt, but he doesn't because, after all, she asked him not to. He stares at her imploringly, wondering if her opportunity is similar to the ones he wouldn't take. He doesn't really have time to consider the implications, however, because she's continuing. "There is a position in Foreign Affairs that I have been asked to consider. And yes, yes, I know it is a desk job, but I can use my language skills, and maybe even travel, and I think I might _like_ that," and she's talking quickly now, her voice lower, as if she's trying to explain to him a secret of utmost importance while simultaneously begging him to understand. She lifts her face to meet his steady gaze, and hers is certain. "I would not be very far away," she tells him, lifting her shoulder in a half shrug. "Just on a different floor. I would still work for NCIS, and see you all every day." There is another pause as she scans his face for any indication of his thoughts. He doesn't know if she wants his approval or his condemnation; he doesn't know which one she needs.

"Ziva-" he starts, carefully, but she holds up her hand once more, and he shuts up.

"I know I signed up for this, Tony," she says patiently, and she's rehearsed this, surely. "I know that bombs and danger are a part of my job description, and I have accepted that. It is just . . . when Mike Franks died, I did not have time to really think, to really consider what life would be like if I just . . . didn't do this work anymore. I have always known the costs and I do not regret any of it, especially my work here. But the thing is, Tony, I don't want to do this anymore –I don't think I can. I have, ah, paid my dues; I have done my time. I like to think I made a difference . . . I mean, there is always another monster, yes, but there are less now, I think, than there would have been. I am . . . tired of the death and the destruction, I am tired of the loss. I am burning out, Tony, and I -I wish to accept Vance's offer. I have made the decision to leave the MCRT . . ." And she stops, her eyes oddly shiny in the dim light of his living room. She's standing there, right next to his coffee table, in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, with her hair pulled back in a ponytail and barely any makeup, and it's all so very surreal.

She's waiting for him to say something, only he didn't get this part of the script, so he settles on a simple, "Okay."

She blinks at him. "Okay? That is all you have to say?" She almost sounds incredulous.

He shrugs, standing up. "Um, yes?"

"Why?"

He winces internally at the indignant tone of her voice as he makes his way over toward her. When they're practically standing toe to toe, he can see the hurt in her eyes at her perceived dismissal, and his palms come up to frame her face without permission from his brain. She watches him unflinchingly, however, and there's that, at least. He gives her a warm, reassuring smile.

"Because," he says quietly, studying her face. "It's okay because it's what you want. I've only ever wanted you to be happy, Ziva."

Something flickers across her eyes, and her brow furrows slightly.

"What?" he asks worriedly.

She bites her lower lip and suddenly smiles. "I know."

"Good," he says, releasing her, even though neither of them moves away.

"Tony?"

"Yes?"

"Do you remember what you asked me on Sunday?"

He nods slowly, not entirely sure where she's going with it, but more than willing to follow her.

"And do you remember what I said?"

"Yeah . . ."

She stares at him expectantly.

And then it all clicks into place.

This time when he smiles, it lights up his entire face: "Ziva David, are you free Thursday evening?"

And she grins up at him conspiringly. "Perhaps."


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: Merry belated holidays. Good news -I survived my first semester of college (yay!); bad news -I fear you all may hate me for dragging my feet on this. So please don't hate me. There are about four chapters left, I think, and the goal (because I am SO good at reaching those) is to be done by the New Year. So let's see, shall we? Much love and keep the peace, Kit!**

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.**

**Chapter XV**

He doesn't know why he's so nervous, why it feels as if something is shifting, hurtling toward something else entirely. He tugs at his tie until the silk noose loosens slightly and he can take a breath of humid summer air before extending his arm and ringing the doorbell.

He had known that she had changed addresses after her breakup with Cruz, but he was surprised to find her new residence on a quiet Georgetown street that seems to be inhabited by relatively young families. There are children playing across the street, two little boys of seven or eight and their father shooting hoops in their driveway. He was even more surprised to find her address doesn't lead to one of the brightly painted front doors dotting the porches, but instead belongs to a basement apartment.

He hears the door chime, a warm gonglike sound, and then her muffled voice, calling, "Coming!"

She opens the door with a flourish and he holds up the bouquet of red roses, peering over the petals to catch the delighted smile that spreads across her face. "Hello, Zee-vah," he says softly and she steps aside to allow him entrance.

"Let me get a vase for those," she says, disappearing into the kitchenette and opening a cabinet. He takes a moment to look at his surroundings. He's standing in the sitting room, and there's a very comfortable looking couch and an armchair that he's fairly sure she lives in, if the book resting on the plush arm is any indication. An antique-looking trunk is masquerading as a coffee table and he's pleased to see her entertainment center is relatively up-to-date. The adjacent dining room is inviting, all warm-toned furniture and her old upright piano.

"Satisfied?" she asks impishly, placing a simple glass vase in the center of the table and glancing at him over her shoulder.

"I like it," he says, passing her the bouquet. "It's very you."

"Thank you," she replies, pressing her nose to the blooms. "I think."

"It was a compliment," he assures her with a smile. "And you're welcome."

She flashes him another smile, the rare kind that lights up her entire face and makes him imagine that it's reserved especially for him. And that's when he notices what she's wearing and his heart nearly forgets how to beat.

She has her hair down, curling around her shoulders, just like he likes it. Her make-up is simple, and she has on these dangly earrings that elongate her neck and do deliciously sinful things to his libido. Her dress is a classic black wrap with a full skirt that skims her knees and a neckline low enough to get his attention –as if it would be anywhere else. She has her arm in the sling, but she's strategically draped a scarf-thing around it so it doesn't look quite so bad.

She looks stunning.

She arches a perfectly manicured eyebrow at him as he makes a final sweep with his eyes.

"You are beautiful," he tells her, and his voice is so soft, so earnest, she leans in impulsively and presses her lips to his cheek.

"Thank you," she murmurs, her breath warm in his ear. "You don't look so bad yourself." And he doesn't, in one of his suits and a pale lavender dress shirt that looks quite debonair.

"Graci," he replies with a smile, offering her his arm. "Our dinner reservations are for seven. Shall we?"

And she smirks, chuckling quietly as she takes his arm and allows him to lead her to the front door.

...

The restaurant is a quiet, upscale place in downtown D.C., where the wine is outstanding, the food delicious, and, for Tony and Ziva, the company superb.

She did not know what to expect from him, if he would be the charming Casanova or the goofy, yet capable, partner she has in the field. She's pleased to find, however, that he isn't one single facet of his persona, but is, instead, simply himself, entire: Smooth and charismatic, yes, but genuine, funny, and mildly self-depreciating as well. They embrace the topic of their coworkers, speculating about Jimmy and Breena's rescheduled nuptials at the end of August, and Ducky's return home next week. Tony had been to visit McGee earlier, and was excited to hear his speech improved and his coordination returning. Ziva had gone to lunch with Abby, who has since then wrangled her into the volunteer project the Goth is spearheading to benefit the family's affected by the bombing.

It doesn't surprise her, though, to find that she's enjoying herself.

"This is nice," she tells him sincerely after the dinner plates have been cleared away and they each are sipping at a second glass of wine each.

He grins at her, his eyes warm and pensive. "Yeah," he agrees, after a moment. "Yeah, it is." Then, "Would you want to do this again, sometime? Maybe, you know, soon?" And he sounds so hopeful, despite his obvious preparation for her rebuff.

Her face softens and she gives him that private, happy smile that he's certain he can get addicted to. "I would like that, Tony."

And his lips twitch upwards into that brilliant smile of his and he says, quietly, "Me too."

...

He pays for dinner and she invites him back to her place for coffee. They end up sitting on her couch with their shoes off, drinking decaf out of cheerfully glazed ceramic mugs, and _talking_. Honestly, openly, really _talking_.

Which, in Tony's case, culminates in babbling.

"I want to give us a shot," he says. "A real shot, Ziva. I want . . . I want to be something permanent in your life. I want to give you the happiness you deserve. I'm ready, I think –no. I know I'm ready. I'm ready for this, for us. I want this." And he's speaking a mile a minute and she's smiling at him but he's too preoccupied with his monologue to notice. So she leans forward and covers his mouth with hers, quite effectively shutting him up.

He freezes against her, caught off guard momentarily before leaning into the kiss and becoming an enthusiastic participant. His palm comes up to cradle her face, his fingertips smoothing over her cheek, and she hums, her lips curling into a smile beneath his. They break the kiss, panting like teenagers during their first heavy make out session, their foreheads pressed together and eyes closed.

And then Ziva starts chuckling, and, though Tony has no idea what is so funny, he joins in anyway because her laughter is contagious and its half past midnight and they are making out on her couch and it's just . . . perfect.

And he'll swear later that he thought the earth moved.


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: Okay, so Shabbat Shalom? Epic. And heartbreakingly sad. Expect a small trifecta for it and next week's episode. We're almost done here. Much love, keep the peace, Kit.**

**DISCLAIMER: Nada.**

**Chapter XVI**

They see each other most days, even if their meetings are simply at the coffee shop between his apartment and hers. They don't sleep together, mutually agreeing that they both need time to acclimate themselves with the dissolution of their old partnership and the evolution of their new one. Their world, as Tony had eloquently put on evening over dinner, had been knocked off its axis and it would take time for the dust to settle; things needed to fall into their respective places before Tony and Ziva fell into their new places as well. Therefore, Tony goes back to work, partnering up with Gibbs and, once, Abigail Borin, to investigate some relatively open-and-shut cases that crop in June. Ziva helps Abby cook for the families directly affected by the bombings, and even babysits two little girls while their mother goes to what Ziva suspects is bereavement counseling. Abby continues offering her assistance whenever she can, slowly overtaking Gibbs' kitchen and spare room for her project –he simply lets her come and go as she pleases. McGee's only job is to get better, which he is trying so valiantly to do.

It's the second week of July and Ziva finds herself back at the hospital, not as a visitor, but as a patient. She's had her cast off for two weeks, only to be replaced with a splint, and the orthopedist has ordered another x-ray. And as much as she hates hospitals –despite the fact that she visits McGee nearly every other day- she hates her splint much more.

"Well, Ms. David," the doctor says, entering the room and holding her x-ray up to the light. "Here's where the fracture occurred-" he points to the area on the bone- "and here's where it healed. I'm going to refer you to a physical therapist to get the strength back in that wrist, but other than that, I think we're done here. Everything looks good."

And she smiles, murmuring her thanks as she reaches for her cell phone to text Tony the good news.

Fifteen minutes later and she's making her way to McGee's room, practically bouncing with relief. She hears Abby before she sees them, the Goth's voice echoing excitedly down the hall from the open door of McGee's room.

"Come on, Timmy!"

She knocks on the doorframe and peers into the room curiously, not quite sure what she's walking in on. Abby's standing near the window on the other side of the room, her lips pulled back in a wide smile, her pigtails practically quivering in anticipation. McGee is standing in the middle of the small room, equidistant between the Goth and the door. He's wearing track pants and a zip-up jacket that Ziva recognizes from somewhere. The walker he's been using to get around has been temporarily abandoned beside the hospital bed and Ziva doesn't have to see the amazed look on Abby's face, or the sheer determination on McGee's, to understand what's going on.

"Hey, Ziva," he says casually, his voice much more even than what it had been a month ago. His face is flushed from the exertion and obvious effort, but he hasn't looked quite this good since Before.

"Hello," she returns, smiling at him. He faces back toward Abby and Ziva widens her eyes at the other woman to express her own astonishment. Abby simply grins and McGee takes another shaky step forward.

…

"Good morning," he says, pressing a kiss to her lips before slipping past her and into her living room. It's the first week of August, just over two months since Harper Dearing turned their world upside down, just six weeks since his world shifted and collided with her orbit.

"Good morning, Tony," she replies warmly, sashaying back into her kitchen, putting an extra swing in her hips because she knows he's watching. "Would you like some coffee?" she asks innocently, glancing over her shoulder to catch him staring shamelessly.

He shakes his head, offering her a lopsided grin. "No, thanks. You about ready?"

"About."

He nods and goes back to watching her, this time a little more covertly. She's got her hair up in a ponytail, and she's wearing an old pair of jeans that are torn on one knee and have paint stains on the thigh, and ride low on her hips. The small of her back is exposed wear her t-shirt has ridden up and he really wants to go over to her and run his fingers along the smooth skin there.

"Ready," she announces a moment later, and by the smirk on her lips, yeah, she caught him staring again.

She doesn't seem to mind, though.

Abby runs the back of her hand across her forehead, wiping away the sweat, but leaving a smear of dirt. The gardening gloves are itchy on the skin of her hands, but she can ignore it. The air is hot and humid, but the sun is shining down happily and the blue sky is cloudless. It's a beautiful day and she inhales deeply, relishing the smell of newly turned soil and fresh cut grass.

She's leaning against her shovel, taking a quick break before the men come back with the next tree. One of her pigtails has escaped her ball cap and she tucks it back under absently as she admires the outcome of what has become her pride and joy.

There are about fifty people around her with dirt dusted hands and grass-stained clothes, armed with shovels, potting soil, and hoses. Some of the men are carefully laying down the stone pavers several yards away, while a few others are digging another hole. A group of women have congregated around the second newly planted tree, chatting and watching water from the hose pipe quickly be sucked up by the fresh soil.

Ziva is standing in the shade of one of the older trees at the edge of the property. She has her sunglasses on and a smile is lighting up her face as she listens to Ducky regale her with a story from one of his many misadventures. The older man is sitting in the lawn chair Gibbs had brought, and while she certain Ducky is craving to be a part of the planting, she knows his content to sit on the sidelines like an obedient patient and watch.

"Here we go!"

Abby looks over to see half a dozen men, including Tony and Gibbs, carefully wrestle a small tree into the freshly dug hole several feet away. She meets Gibbs' eyes and, picking up her shovel, she heads back to work.

…

The Navy Yard reopens on a Tuesday.

The building's façade has been duplicated and looks nearly like it did in its former glory. The bullpen is exactly as it was, with the walls, much to Tony's outward dismay and internal relief, still pumpkin orange, and sunshine still filtering in through the skylight overhead. The elevator is a newer model, and Abby mourns the loss of its predecessor's sentimental value, until Tony reminds her that there will be plenty of opportunities for the new elevator to be just as important of a backdrop as the last.

New procedures have been put in place, chiefly proper evacuation protocol in the event of a crisis. Gibbs has even gone so far as to indoctrinate a new rule: If there's a bomb threat, take the stairs.

Always.

And while everyone is, for the most part, excited and relieved to be back at work and on the road to normalcy, there still is a lingering sadness. Because there are eleven people who will never walk back into this building.


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N: Two more chapters, and you definitely get one tomorrow :^) I love you all to pieces and back, and I cannot thank you enough for your patience. Much love and keep the peace, Kit!**

**DISCLAIMER: I would be unemployed if I had anything to do with NCIS because, clearly, I'm horrible at time management.**

**CHAPTER XVII**

Director Vance is talking, but Ziva isn't paying attention. It's early on Saturday morning, five days since the Navy Yard reopened, and the air is cool and damp against her bare arms. She's standing amongst a couple hundred people, some of which are colleagues, others sailors and marines, still others families from nearby communities. The vast majority of those gathered, however, are strangers united for one common purpose: To remember the nine men and women who gave their lives for the country they loved.

There are nine newly planted cherry trees in a semicircle around a small, granite obelisk. She can't see the words etched into the polished surface from where she stands, but she knows what it reads.

_In honor of the lives lost on May 15__th__, 2012. _

_ May their memories live on in the hearts of a grateful nation;_

_ And may peace be restored throughout the world._

_ God bless America._

The fruit of Abby's labor of love, a peace garden behind the NCIS building, a tribute to the fallen, and those left behind to continue the crusade for freedom. The cherry trees just look like little trees, their signature pink blossoms not to be seen until the following spring, but the symbolism is still there. Ducky had explained to her the previous weekend when they had gathered to plant the saplings that the cherry blossoms traditionally represented peace and mortality, as well as the persistence of the human soul beyond the reach of death. Each tree had a small bronze tile inlaid on the ground before its trunk, each tile engraved with a name, each tree a living tribute to an individual's whose life was taken too soon.

Ziva glances around surreptitiously, memorizing the scene unfolding before her. Ducky and Gibbs are standing to her immediate left, with Abby wedged between them. McGee, leaning slightly on his walker, is standing beside Gibbs, who is staring forward with solemn eyes. Tony is directly to Ziva's right, his fingers entwined with hers and his warmth infusing her where she's tucked into his side. If Gibbs has noticed their closeness, he gives no indication, and Ziva assumes he knew before she herself even did.

_Taps_ begins to play and Ziva returns her attention to the front where Vance has relinquished his place to a young Marine in full regalia and the shining silver bugle pressed to his lips. Several people are sniffling, and the woman from the first floor who lost her husband in the bombing begins to cry, and Ziva can just make out the slight curve of the widow's baby bump beneath her blouse. Her own eyes sting suddenly and she blinks back tears rapidly as Tony squeezes her hand in reassurance.

When the ceremony ends, he pulls her into a hug and she willing goes, not able to find it in herself to care if they have an audience. Abby eventually takes over the hug and Gibbs squeezes Tony's shoulder, offering him a small smile. McGee is talking quietly with Ducky as Palmer makes his way through the retreating crowd, Breena at his side, her blue eyes sad.

"Anybody want to go get something to eat?" Abby offers, and her mascara is smudged beneath her lashes where she's scrubbed her tears away.

"So long as it isn't hospital food," McGee says with a shudder, his eyes twinkling.

Gibbs nods his acquiesce, "Duck?"

"I could do with some wholegrain toast," Ducky states with a smile.

Jimmy and Breena end up declining, citing their need to clarify some last minute wedding details, and then all eyes turn to Tony and Ziva.

"I think," Tony says, glancing at his partner, "that we're just going to go home."

And he doesn't specify whose home, and rather they plan on going individually or together. No one questions them on it.

After a couple of minutes, the group disbands, with Jimmy and Breena heading in one direction, while Abby, McGee, and Ducky start making their way over to the Charger. Gibbs lingers, however, regarding Tony and Ziva quietly for a brief moment before inclining his silver head toward the granite monument several yards away. "Life's short," he tells them quietly. "Rule number five."

"Rule number five is that life is short?" Ziva asks, brow furrowed, but Gibbs is walking away and Tony is silent beside her. She cranes her neck to look at him and the smile on his face warms something inside her.

"Rule number five," he murmurs. "You don't waste good."


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N: I survived my first year of college **** Granted, my writing took some major neglect, but, hey, a girl's gotta prioritize. So far I've been satisfied with Season 10 (Again, someone, please, give De Pablo an award already!) though I am a little irritated with Miss David at the moment (What the heck Ziva?! Get it together!). I have a trifecta in the works dealing with the last two episodes and then the finale, so watch out for those ;) Anyway, enough pointless babbling (side note: I missed everybody a ton) and on with the show! Only the epilogue left! Much love, keep the peace, Kit.**

**DISCLAIMER: Ha. Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha . . . . . No.**

**CHAPTER XVIII**

She makes omelets that are, of course, delicious. When he offers to do the dishes, she tells him to leave them in the sink, she'll do them later. He looks at her incredulously and she just shrugs, saying, "They will still be there in a few hours."

And he pauses as he watches her turn to refill her coffee cup, because there's the implication that though the dirty plates will be there later on, they –Tony and Ziva- may not be. And that's when it hits him: He's finite. And so is she. And they've got this thing that hasn't even gotten to _be_ yet and it is suddenly so important to him to just _make it happen_.

She hears him come up behind her, can feel his warmth at her back, his breath burning the exposed skin of her neck. And she smiles because it took him long enough, and she turns around slowly, the counter top biting into her lower back as she abandons her coffee mug and turns her attention to the man before her.

His eyes are bright and there's this _something_ in his gaze that she can't quite place, but it makes her feel warm inside. His palm comes up to cup her face, his fingers tracing her jaw back to the shell of her ear, back further until he pull the elastic from her hair, releasing the messy curls she knows he likes. He withdraws his hand and she quirks her lips at him curiously before reaching toward him, curling her hand behind his neck and bringing his head down to her level. She presses her mouth to his and she can taste his smile as he leans into the kiss, the hand that isn't buried in her hair anchoring at her hip.

And though she's getting dizzy from the lack of oxygen and force of feeling, he's already drunk off her.

She pulls back, breathless, and he continues placing kisses on her temple, her eyelids, her cheekbones, the spot on her neck where her pulse is beating beneath.

"Tony," she murmurs and he rests his forehead against hers, their noses brushing and breaths mingling.

"Zee-vah," and he draws out the syllables of her name like he always has and they _know_.

Her fingers tangle with his and she tugs him with her as she leads the path to her bedroom.

The curtains are still drawn, but sunlight is peeking through the gap, casting a golden stripe down the center of the room. Her bed is still unmade and he can see the impression of where her body had been on the mattress. She smiles at him again, a full, glowing smile that lights up her face and makes his heart do funny things to his ribcage.

Suddenly, she standing before him with her t-shirt dangling from her fingertips and the look on her face cannot be considered anything but come hither.

And it's one o'clock in the afternoon and they are Tony and Ziva and the earth has shifted.

...

"Ziva?" he whispers against her neck, his breath hot on her still-flushed skin. He's spooning against her, his body curled around hers protectively, and she can feel his heartbeat slowing as his pulse returns to normal. He's a warm, solid presence behind her and she's pleasantly drowsy, her limbs heavy and her body sated.

She's just on the cusp of slumber, but she responds anyway, her voice smoky in the dimness of her bedroom. "Hm?"

"I meant it, you know," he says quietly, his tone serious. "When I told you that I loved you; I-I wasn't just saying it in the heat of the moment-" And he's a breath away from babbling, so she rolls over in his embrace, so they are laying chest to chest with their legs entangled and his arm draping loosely over her lower back.

"Tony?" she says, softly interrupting him with a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth.

His eyes darken slightly, and he blinks. "Yeah?"

She smiles at him sleepily. "I know."

And she can feel his heartbeat pick back up as he rolls her beneath him once more, marveling at how well they fit together, her thighs parting to cradle his hips perfectly. His words come out thick and they both pretend not to notice it when he chants softly between pressing kisses to her lips, "I love you, I love you, I love you . . ."

Later, she smoothes a hand over his face, ruffling her fingers though his sex-mussed hair, pressing a tender kiss to his temple. And eventually they begin to fall asleep, his head resting against her belly and her arms cradling him to her.

"Tony?" she says on a sigh.

"Yeah?" And his response is exhaled across the golden expanse of her stomach, gooseflesh rising in the wake of his words.

She's quiet for a moment and he thinks she's fallen asleep until she continues softly, "I love you."

And she can feel him smile against her skin, his lips brushing the place just above the bottom of her ribcage. "Besides, I know," he replies, and they both pretend that they don't notice the fluttering of his eyelashes as he tries, in vain, to keep his tears from kissing her skin.


	19. Epilogue

**A/N: Happy Memorial Day! I apologize for taking so long to finish this, I wanted to do it justice :) The second part (Part I) of the finale trifecta will be posted sometime this week (seriously -it's half written and it will get done). Hope everyone is having an enjoyable holiday, much love and keep this peace, Kit!**

**DISCLAIMER: I only arrange the words you see below, folks.**

_**THANK YOU TO THE BRAVE MEN AND WOMEN, AND THEIR FAMILIES, PAST AND PRESENT, WHO HAVE AND CONTINUE TO MAKE SACRIFICES EVERY DAY IN THE PURSUIT OF FREEDOM. MAY GOD BLESS YOU.**_

**EPILOGUE**

Tony inhaled deeply, almost tasting the salt on the sea breeze rolling across the eastern seaboard. Whoever had believed the Pacific was peaceful, he thought lazily, had obviously never seen the Atlantic.

The Palmer-Slater wedding is being held on a quiet stretch of beach on the edge of Delaware in a sleepy, historic town with old, New English-style buildings and a small lighthouse situated on a cape. He and Ziva drove down Friday afternoon, spending the night at a quaint bed and breakfast, mere paces from the shoreline. She is, much to his delight, infatuated with the ocean, sitting and watching the waves swell and crest for two hours before coaxing him into a long walk along the waterline. She had even left the window open when they went to bed last night, and they had fallen asleep and woken up to the sea air breezing in with the gentle lull of breaking waves. It was, he's certain, one of the best nights of sleep he's ever gotten.

Since the nuptials are scheduled to take place at sunset, the majority of the day has been spent lounging in bed and then enjoying a late breakfast with the bride and groom ("Mr. and Mrs. Gremlin-to-be."), the best woman ("Woman-of-honor? Groomswoman? Uh, Abby, what are you, exactly?"), everyone's favorite McInvalid ("I can say this because he's not really an invalid, Zee-vah."), the wizened medical examiner ("We are glad to see you up and moving, Ducky."), and their silver-haired patriarch ("What number does this make for you, Boss? –_swack- _I deserved that."). The mimosas were delicious, the company even better, and the view, of course, was gorgeous.

And his day just seems to be getting better.

She's standing at the very edge of shore, right where the water rises up to kiss one's toes before retreating. Her hair is down and even though she spent half an hour straightening it, the ocean air has enticed to curling into a loose tousle. She's wearing a dark purple dress made out of some flow-y, swishy fabric that clings to her curves and flares around her knees. When he first saw her in it earlier, it took all his self-control (and perhaps a negotiated promise of _later_) to let her leave the room without ravishing her silly. And as he stands several feet back watching her, he's hit with the Feeling that's rapidly becoming all too familiar whenever he's in her presence (and sometimes even when he isn't): It's a warm, physical ache in the pit of his belly that has absolutely nothing to do with his wayward libido and everything to do with the fact that he loves her so much that it actually _hurts_.

"Enjoying the view, DiNozzo?" she asks teasingly over the tinkling percussion of the waves washing over the pile of seashells embedded in the sand. He smirks at being caught, and having already rolled up his pant legs, steps forward so her back is pressed to his chest. His arms snake around her, his hands folding together at her belly, the fabric of her dress light and silky against his skin. He tilts his head, pressing a kiss at the junction of her neck and collarbone, before resting his chin on her shoulder.

"Very much," he says and she chuckles. The sky has already started to fade into pinkness as the sun began its descent to the horizon.

"The ceremony will be starting soon," she says, but neither of them move.

"'Bout twenty minutes," he estimates, and they can already hear people congregating a little ways down the beach where several rows of white wooden chairs have been set up before a gauzy canopy erected in lieu of an altar.

"We should go," she tells him, turning her head to kiss his cheek. "Come on."

And she entwines their fingers together and they go to join the others, barefooted with sand sticking halfway up their shins.

...

The wedding is smaller than it initially would have been back in May as some friends and relatives couldn't make it, but everyone who needed to be there was. The wedding party itself was a fraction of its original size, with only Breena's sister standing up for the bride as the matron of honor and only Abby standing up for Palmer as . . . whatever her role was being referred to.

McGee, having made a near full recovery, with only several scars and a barely noticeable limp denoting his ordeal, stands on Tony's right while Gibbs is on Ziva's left, blue eyes watching Palmer's expression as Breena steps into view. Abigail Borin, funnily enough, is on Gibbs' other side, having be dragged to the wedding because she owed Gibbs a favor (though Tony's fairly certain she's enjoying herself). The Vances arrived an hour before the ceremony started, and Tony recognizes several other NCIS employees that were friends of Palmer's.

The harpist begins to play Pachebel's canon and Breena starts to glide down the aisle, her father on left and Ducky on her right. She's absolutely stunning in simple white lace, carrying a bouquet of calla lilies, smiling radiantly.

Ziva, of course, is a solid presence on Tony's right, his hand still encasing the warmth of hers, and while she herself is watching the bride and groom meet under the canopy, he's content to simply watch her.

The minister begins by saying something to Breena and Palmer, which makes them both chuckle and grin. Then, raising his voice so everyone can hear, he says in a warm voice, "Ladies and gentlemen, family and friends, welcome! We are gathered here today to witness and celebrate the joining of Breena Michelle and James William in marriage! They have chosen you, those special and important to them, to share in this beautiful evening and the beginning of their life as husband and wife. They have come to realize that their personal dreams, hopes, and goals are more attainable and more meaningful when put together, and they have found in the other a partner who will stand beside them always, through better or through worse. It's a truly beautiful thing." And Tony begins to zone out, focusing less on what the minister is saying and more on the feeling of Ziva beside him, her shoulder brushing his, his thumb tracing a random pattern against the back of her hand.

Somehow, they have survived, once more, the impossible. They've come out on the other side of the odds stronger, and he understands so much more now; why it never worked with Wendy or EJ, or anyone else for that matter. Why it was never his life flashing before his eyes, but his life without _her_. Why he would through himself in front of a bullet, a terrorist, the falling ceiling of an explosion-wracked elevator . . .

He understands what Michael Rodriguez meant when he said to not waste anymore time.

He totally, completely _gets_ it.

...

Gibbs glances over Ziva's head to look at Tony and realizes that all the time before Harper Dearing literally rocked their world he had been wrong. Because until very recently, he used to think that history was repeating itself –that Ziva and DiNozzo were only versions of Jenny and himself existing in another time. But they aren't.

(Thank God).

Because Tony's looking at Ziva right now just like Palmer's looking at his bride-to-be.

And Ziva isn't Tony's Jenny.

She's his Shannon.

...

Tony focuses back on the events unfolding before him, just as the minister finishes prompting Palmer on his vows and Ziva squeezes his hand amongst echoed of promises of for richer and for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and cherish as long as we both shall live.

THE END

...

(Or, perhaps, A BEGINNING?)


End file.
